The Syndicate Scandal
by stilettov
Summary: Sherlock and John investigate the gang-hit of the leader of global drug-trafficking network The Syndicate. Sherlock taps an old rival, Syndicate gang lawyer Irene Adler, for information, but eventually finds himself in a very compromising position.
1. breakfast special: corpse benedict

John Watson's Blog

April 10th

Started off the morning at an ungodly hour. Sherlock did that incredibly annoying thing where he pokes me in the shoulder until I wake up, tells me to get dressed, then runs down the stairs to wait in the cab without even leaving me time to make coffee.

I didn't want to face the clock yet, but it was still dark outside. Sherlock texted me from the cab to tell me to hurry up. I resolved to beat him to death with my shoe at the nearest opportunity. I got into the cab next to him, feeling like an unmade bed. He looked well-rested and smug. He'd probably had coffee. Bastard.

"You can't keep doing this" I said. "Especially not so bloody early."

He grinned at me. "Would you rather go have a lie-in?"

"Frankly, yes."

He gave the cabbie a Soho address. We pulled away from the curb, and joined early morning traffic. "If there's going to be running, can we get coffee first?" I asked hopefully.

"The main feature of interest is a murdered corpse," he said without looking at me. He seemed very interested in the cars flanking us. "Unless by some miracle it gets up and starts dashing about, I think you're safe."

"Another dead body. Is it Tuesday already?"

"A case after six months of nothing, and all you can do is complain."

"Oh, no, I'm thrilled, I just don't like the smell of recently deceased flesh in the morning. Prefer to wait for the afternoon." 

Sherlock turned, and looked at me full on. "John, have you ever heard of _le syndicat uni_?"

"The United Syndicate? No. Sounds like a financial outfit."

"It also goes by the name the United Nations Syndicate, but it's mostly referred to as simply the Syndicate. It's one of the most prolific drug trafficking organizations in the world, with bastions on five continents. It's strongest here in London, and in New York City."

"It's good to see diversity being embraced by the enfranchised criminal," I remarked. "I'm assuming our expired chum is somehow related."

"Not just related," he said. "Integral."

We pulled up alongside a building site that appeared to have been abandoned. The sky was getting lighter, but there were still crime scene lights blasting over the scene, throwing it into high relief. Sherlock paid the fare, and we made our way out into the bitter pre-dawn air. I huddled in my coat, wishing I'd remembered my muffler and gloves.

Lestrade met us at the police tape perimeter. "Thanks for coming on such short notice." He lifted the tape so we could duck under it.

"You know I wouldn't miss this one for the world," Sherlock said, his smile even broader. "I've been waiting for this for a long time."

"We've been working on the Syndicate for a few years, but they have excellent representation," Lestrade explained as he led us over to a black Cadillac Escalade that stood with all of its doors open. "Caleb Marcel is, or I should say, was the patriarch of the ruling family, which controlled operations here in London. French Albanian, large family. Deals mostly coke and heroin. He supplied a very wealthy clientele, many of them professionals. And it looks like he was hit last night."

"Where's Sergeant Donovan?" I asked, looking around.

"Using her vacation time," Lestrade said cooly.

Sherlock smiled. "Hope she's not burning out. I know how you'd hate to lose your best paper pusher."

Lestrade's face scrunched up in annoyance. "Something about a family reunion."

Sherlock made a noise of contempt, and turned away. He crunched through the gravel and circled the vehicle, appraising it with careful attention. I followed his gaze, tried to imagine what exactly he was thinking. He was peering through the windscreen, upon which there was a spiderweb of cracks described around a hole that was about a foot and a half wide, curved outwards as though something had exploded behind it. There was no one in the driver's seat, but I could see bloody patch. Someone had been there.

Lestrade and I watched silently as Sherlock took up a position five metres away from the vehicle, silently observing each detail, before taking several steps forward. He whipped out his little magnifying glass, and examined the surface of the bonnet closely. He then examined the gaping hole in the windscreen. Finally, he turned his attention to Lestrade and myself.

"The windscreen is bullet resistant glass. It's one-way glass, and curved. Fabricated to repel fire, but allow whoever is inside the vehicle to shoot out. Effective against small arms, but the integrity is compromised when a high-powered weapon is used, as is clearly the case here."

He backpedaled to his first point of observation, and raised his arms as though he was cradling a pump-action shotgun. ".12 gauge shotgun would cause maximum damage. The spread of the shot embedded in the window indicates the shooter was at least five metres away." He pumped an invisible round. "Bang. Fire leaves a wide spread in the glass."

He walked forward, stopping at the bumper and mimed the firing action again. "At least a metre away in order to maximize the damage to the window, but it wouldn't penetrate."

"But there's buckshot in the upholstery," Lestrade interjected. "How-?"

"Here," Sherlock bent over the bonnet. I went over to get a closer look. He pointed to small scratches in the paint. "The shooter climbed up on to the hood, kicked in the window, and fired the third time, then dragged the driver out the window, going by the fabric shreds on the glass. The scratches were left by gravel in the tread of his shoes."

I cocked my head. "Why wouldn't he just use the butt of the shotgun to smash through? Why climb up on to the bonnet?"

"Steel toed boots are faster," Sherlock said. "A well placed kick has a lot more power behind it. A single blow would penetrate the glass, but the shotgun butt would take several blows, and position the shooter in front of the door. The driver would be unharmed, time enough to react, to pull the car out of park, or deck the shooter with the door."

"Or shoot him," said Lestrade. "There were two guns in the car, one in the back seat, one in the driver's side, neither discharged."

That seemed to give Sherlock pause. A frown line appeared between his eyebrows, and he put his fingers together and pressed them against his lips. I recognized it as one of his subtle attitudes of annoyance when some piece of the puzzle doesn't fit. Then he smiled behind his hands, the light of challenge in his eyes. Whatever thought had crossed his mind, he wasn't going to divulge it until it was expedient.

He flashed me an I-know-something-you-don't-know look, and I was struck by an image of him getting the stuffing kicked out of him in primary school. There were occasions when he demonstrated all the maturity of a sixteen year old girl. Actually, I dearly hoped he'd got the stuffing kicked out of him in primary school.

Lestrade rapped his knuckles on the car roof to get our attention. "If you're done having a little moment, I'd appreciate it if you could look at Marcel."

Sherlock gave an exaggerated yawn and bent down to look at the fist size hole in the window "This is Grade One one-way glass. Also curved. Designed to withstand a 9mm shot, which is a pretty standard gang weapon because of its cheapness. This was a higher calibre bullet. Much higher."

He slid inside next to the corpse, and beckoned me. I ducked my head in and was immediately hit with the sickly coppery smell of fresh blood. The sight was gristly enough to make my stomach lurch, and I was suddenly very glad I hadn't had any coffee. Caleb Marcel may have at one time been a handsome man, but it was impossible to tell under the carnage. The only discernible physical features were that he was tall, black and bald. His head was rolled to the side, facing towards us. The right eye was intact, but the left eye was a bloody, messy hole. A little bit of gelatinous substance leaked from it.

I forced down my nausea, and moved a bit closer. Sherlock was relaxed against the seat, his head turned towards the corpse, for all the world as though he were about to strike up a conversation. He turned to look at me, an ironic tug at the corner of his mouth. "Right up your street, isn't it, doctor?"

I stared at him, uncertain of how to respond. I didn't spend time examining entrance wounds and trajectories; I was accustomed to digging bullets out as fast as possible, stitching the wounds back together, and hoping my patient would survive the chopper ride back to the base hospital. Since meeting Sherlock Holmes, I had examined my fair share of murder victims, but I was still a little thrown by patients that were beyond my help. I took a deep breath, turned off the trauma surgeon, and turned on the pathologist.

"It looks as though the bullet traveled through the left eye socket, and also damaged the zygomaticofacial foramen-"

"The what?" Lestrade interrupted.

"Cheek bone," Sherlock supplied. "Continue."

"The bullet caused major internal trauma, evidenced by the blood that leaked from the nostrils and mouth." I ducked out of the car and went around to the left side. The exit wound was gruesome, a bloody pulp of red flesh about three inches in diameter, and it was leaking gray matter. Bile rose in my throat, and I had to step back for a moment to escape the miasma of raw meat and blood. I coughed into my elbow, and took a step forward.

"The round penetrated and damaged the parietal, temporal and occipital regions of the skull. Death would have been instantaneous."

"Now we have a firm grasp on the obvious," Sherlock said, seizing the edge of the roof and swinging himself out of the car. He shot the lapels of his long coat, and quick stepped over to the left side of the vehicle.

"Oh, thanks," I said sarcastically.

"Buck up, John," he said, clapping me on the back. "The obvious is a good place to start. Now, would you like to hazard a guess at the weapon and calibre used to deliver the _coup de grace_?"

"Some kind of expanding bullet?" I suggested.

"Good, but you're forgetting the glass. Look at this." He held the car door out so I could see. There was, as I expected, a great deal of blood spattered on the glass, and a hole about the size of a pound coin. But slightly off to the right of it, another hole the same size. I looked up at Sherlock. "Two shots? What does that prove?"

"It doesn't prove anything. It suggests a sequence of events. Like the windscreen, the safety glass was punched in. The shot is clearly a close range, easy to tell from the powder burns on the upholstery. The glass isn't rated for .44 and above, and there are no bullet fragments in the window or the head, so not an expanding bullet.

"It would take a high calibre bullet to weaken the glass from the outside, but a shot through the glass is unlikely to inflict that kind of trauma, nor is it likely to hit its target. You'll notice the side windows are all tinted, so visibility becomes an issue."

"Could you please get to the point?" Lestrade said with exasperation.

Sherlock turned a sneer on the detective inspector. "The point is obvious, Lestrade, provided you can keep your train of thought from going into the ravine."

"Please," Lestrade said, resigned. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and continued.

"The first shot fired penetrated the glass, missed the target and traveled out through the other window. Again, one way glass, easy for the bullet to exit. The window is punched in, probably someone wearing brass knuckles. Caleb looks in the direction of the noise, and before he reacts, the shooter has reached in with the gun and fired a second time. The round enters his eye, blows out the back of his skull, and travels through the window."

"We have people out looking for the slugs," Lestrade said. "And the driver's body."

"Good. Maintain the integrity of the car. We may need to look at it later." Sherlock turned his back on the scene, and gave Lestrade a little wave over his shoulder. "Ciao."

I trailed after him and met him at the curb. He flagged down a taxi and directed us to a cafe of his choosing. It was stark and featureless, done in grays and whites, with square modern furniture. Very much Sherlock, with little to distract him. Fortunately, the coffee was good.

The chairs were wide enough so that Sherlock could sit cross-legged. He was inscribing patterns in the foam of his latte with a demitasse spoon, and he hadn't taken a sip in the ten minutes since he'd ordered it. I was into my second cup of drip coffee, and the caffeine buzz was starting to hit me.

"There was something else, wasn't there." I said, swirling the liquid in my cup.

"Isn't it obvious?" he said smugly, knowing full well I had no idea what he was talking about.

"You know it's not." I felt the familiar trepidation of being called stupid. "Tell me."

"The driver wasn't killed by a shotgun." The little crease in his brow had returned, and he dropped the demitasse spoon into his cup.

"Blood pattern and shot in the seat, seems like a shotgun to me." I said.

"It definitely wasn't the shotgun. There's no way it could have been."

"Then how?"

He took a breath, apparently trying to nail down his thought. "Neither of the weapons in the car were discharged. The man holding the shotgun fired the first shot from five metres, the second from one metre, neither of which penetrated the glass. Time enough for the driver to grab his pistol and return fire. Time enough to alert Caleb, who would do the same." He put his fingertips together and pressed them against his lower lip. "If neither weapon was discharged, they must have killed the passenger and driver simultaneously."

"But the shotgun was three blasts. Not instantaneous. So the driver must have..." I trailed off, waiting for him to complete the thought.

"Precisely. His weapon isn't discharged, neither is Caleb's, so he had to have been killed before he had a chance to react. The shotgun would have given him too much time, he'd have gotten a shot off."

Something was bothering me. "Why didn't you tell Lestrade?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh, and I wondered if it had been a dumb question. But he'd never berated me for asking questions, only for failing to observe what he'd observed. Still, he tried to be encouraging, and I appreciated that. And I tried to encourage him to grow a heart, with less success.

"Lestrade needs concrete evidence, and he's not going to get that unless he finds the body, which is highly unlikely. Not to mention, he would need a suspect, and Caleb Marcel occupied the highest level of drug trafficking, so he had a host of enemies."

"Couldn't we wait and see who takes over?"

"An act like this can spark a civil war in the family. He has four sons and a daughter, and it's possible each one will claim to be his heir apparent. It's not exactly something you can put in a will. One of them could have ordered the hit, or it could have been a rival gang."

"A supplier, maybe? Someone had to organize the meeting. Why would they meet in a building site? It seems exposed for a drug deal."

"Maybe by mutual consent, choosing an open space so that no one side has the advantage if it comes down to shooting. Implicit part of the agreement. If it was an outside party, they must have spies in Marcel's network who knew when he'd be most exposed. If it was a family member, which is more likely, they organized the meeting, and contracted the hit."

"So where do we start?"

Sherlock stood up. "The Old Bailey."

"Huh?"

But he was already heading out the door.


	2. brotherly shove

_Mycroft Holmes (10/04/11 09:02:35):_

I can't cover your arse forever. Time to grow up.

_Sherlock Holmes (10/04/11 09:0311):_

Mind your own sodding business.

_Mycroft Holmes (10/04/11 09:04:30):_

Keep your nose clean.


	3. stone cold fox

Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

Username: sherlockholmes

Password:************

April 10

Finally. Months of monotony, but this morning, the Yard gifted me with a case that's gruesome enough, dangerous enough that it might actually hold my attention. I'd been clean for a year, but the last three months were so devoid of stimulation that I slipped into my old habit. Not enough that it was telling to an outsider, but enough to keep me alert when I would otherwise be immobile with ennui. Regardless, the needle goes back in the drawer, today. The cocaine high is unmatched by the prospect of a ripe new case, especially if it's truly horrific, grotesque and bizarre.

My supplier will be tremendously disappointed, but there it is. He's made a small fortune off my boredom, but I've finally found some worthwhile occupation. The text from Lestrade smashed through my lethargy like a wrecking ball. I called for a taxi, raced up the stairs to shake John awake, then went back down to wait for him. Lazy bastard took a whole ten minutes getting dressed, and whined about not having coffee. Addict.

Crime scene was just peachy keen. To Lestrade, it was a cut-and-dried hit, but I could see from the outset that it was not as simple as it appeared. The main feature is the fact that the driver was removed, probably to cover the fact that his murder was executed in some other fashion than the shotgun. It was made to look like shotgun, but there's no way to tell yet how he was killed. I've left it alone for now, but a good barrister would take apart Lestrade's evidence, if and when he is able to find a suspect. He's going to need more.

Then there's motive. Half of all the gang leaders in London have good reason to want Caleb dead. One of his children could have ordered the hit. They might even have pulled the trigger on the weapon that killed him. But the driver, that's the challenge. How was he killed? Why was he disposed of? Why make it look like the shotgun killed him? A traditional hit is simple, fast and messy, often resulting in bullet-riddled bodies that are left wherever they were killed. The identity of the victim is broadcast to all and sundry, and the message usually gets across. In that case, the responsible parties have little to hide, at least from each other.

But someone hid the driver's body. Someone had something to hide. Excellent. Wonderful. A challenge. But the data was lacking, so I would have to try another approach. I would have to find a way to mine information on the Syndicate. Fortunately, I knew where to start.

We stopped at a cafe after our tour of the crime scene. John managed two cups of coffee and a danish, something most people wouldn't be able to stomach after examining the exploded skull of a gunshot victim. But he was accustomed to blood and trauma, which made him quite valuable as an assistant. Unlike Anderson, who, in the face of particularly violent mutilation, often makes a tremendous effort to find somewhere hidden where he can heave up his lunch. Easy to detect the unpleasant smell on his coveralls, and the trace scent of whisky. Last week I made a point of slipping a note to the head M.E., who I'm sure would be concerned about the drinking problem.

We took a taxi from Soho and made it to the Old Bailey in ten minutes. Once in the entrance hall, I checked quickly with the court officer, and was directed to a particular hearing room. We went into the upper gallery of the small courtroom, which was mostly empty. I shushed John the moment he tried to ask a question, and turned my attention to the proceedings.

There were only four people in the gallery below. The judge presiding was familiar to me: Michael Fitzpatrick. He was a bear of a man, and liked to project a no-nonsense air, but his ability to regulate litigation was somewhat compromised by the fact that he was distracted by worries about his wife cheating on him. I frequented the courts often, and recently noticed him in the loo, looking through text messages on a purple Blackberry that could only belong to a woman. The ensuing battles must have drained him considerably, because he was drowsing at the bench, and there were circles under his eyes.

In any case, the hearing was not of tremendous importance. Rather it was a preliminary concerning the admissibility of certain evidence. The Crown Prosecutor was outlining the evidence against one Francois Marcel, one of Caleb's nephews, if I remembered correctly. He served as a low-level distributor, and the litigators were arguing about whether there was sufficient signage near a secondary school close to where he had been caught dealing. Seemingly a trifle, but it could add an extra year to his prison sentence if he was convicted. The accused himself was not present, and his counsel was acting for him.

The prosecutor was of little interest to me. He was run-of-the-mill, and was overshadowed by the confidence of his opponent. Often, a criminal case hinges more on the charisma of the barrister than it does on the evidence. And in this case, the defence had charisma to spare. I had seen this particular lawyer turn the most gristly murderers into mere victims of circumstance, and warp the testimony of an unsuspecting arresting officer into a self-incriminating, biased, police brutality-laden rap sheet.

Irene Adler. Tall, long limbs, mocha brown skin. Thick black hair that was usually tied up in a knot at the back of her head. Arch Egyptian features, with long neck and high cheekbones. Eyes wide and pale brown behind wire-rimmed designer spectacles. Flawless makeup, perfectly coiffed, and exquisitely dressed, she embodied class, never crossing the borders into pretension.

Miss Adler (or Irene as I prefer to call her, as it annoys her greatly) was an undergraduate student at New York University at about the same time I was at Sidney Sussex. She had majored in theatre and minored in forensics, and had taken her masters in law at Cambridge. All of her credentials served her quite well, especially the first two. She had an innate understanding of the science behind crime, and she knew how to navigate the theatre of criminal court. Most of all, she was at home in the arena, and had a deep passion for combat.

I rested my arms on the railing, and watched as she requested permission to approach the bench. I smiled inwardly as she leaned in so that Judge Fitzpatrick had a clear view of the decolletage framed by the sharp lapels of her charcoal blazer. It was a subtle gesture, perfectly executed so that it didn't appear affected. Fitzpatrick was helpless. He took a deep breath and ruled the Crown's evidence inadmissible, then declared the session ended.

Irene did not smile, but acknowledged her victory with a slight nod to the opposition and returned over to her colleague, who was gathering papers. She leaned in to whisper something in his ear, the posture of her body suggesting intimacy. Potentially interesting, but most office romances were often empty and valueless in an investigation. In this case, there might be exceptions.

"Who is she?" John asked, free to speak now that the hearing was finished. He had followed my gaze, his eyes lighting on the object of my focus. Now he was fixated; Irene had that effect.

I turned to him, and smiled. "The most dangerous woman in London. Come along."

We caught up with her in the entrance hall, following the click of her stiletto pumps. I held a hand out to stop John, who had clearly been struck dumb by this dusky Valkyrie, because he wasn't asking any questions.

I slid my hands in my coat pockets and leaned casually against one of the great marble columns, waiting for her to look back. She did, glancing over her shoulder to investigate the sound of the footsteps keeping time with hers. Her expression went hard, but she softened it as she turned to her companion (tall, blond, exceptionally ordinary) and told him to go ahead.

I smiled at her as she approached me warily. We had only ever crossed swords once. It was during a court case that ended in a hung jury, much to her disappointment, though the case against her client was eventually dropped. She had once given an interview in which she had said that she preferred to take no prisoners. One could tell by the way she carried herself that here was a woman who refused point-blank to be intimidated.

No lawyer had ever bested me in the courtroom, but Irene Adler had come the closest. Delightfully close. I valued her highly as a worthy opponent. She very obviously did not feel the same way. I suspected she was bitter about my messing up her nearly-perfect record, despite the fact that most litigators would be perfectly happy with those results.

She cocked a hip, looking between me and John. "Mr. Holmes. No longer unattached, I see."

John made a small choking sound. He was used to taking jabs from the Yarders, but I could see it caused it some dismay to hear it from a beautiful woman, because he stuttered, "no, we are not- I'm not-"

I cut in. "Irene, my colleague Dr. John Watson. John, this is Irene Adler."

John offered his hand to her. She took one look at him, the corners of her mouth tightening in a false smile before it vanished from her face, replaced with an expression of bored contempt. John pulled back his hand as if bitten. She turned to me. "Why are you here, Mr. Holmes?"

"We might want to go somewhere more private. What I have to tell you is of a rather sensitive nature."

She arched a brow. "I am not going anywhere private with you."

"What if I promise not to bite?" I grinned, showing my teeth.

Her eyes narrowed. "We're not on a first name basis, Mr. Holmes. Get to the point."

I put a hand on my heart. "Always a needle in hand. I'm wounded."

"Sherlock, quit flirting," John interjected, using his very-stern-professional voice.

I acquiesced. "Your client, Caleb Marcel, was assassinated last night."

Her aspect changed, going from cool indifference to surprised interest. She actually took a step closer. "How?"

I dug my mobile phone out of my pocket and showed her a photo I'd snapped. It was a front-view of Caleb's head, the wounds clearly visible. Most people would gag, but she was a veteran of gruesome autopsy photos. Her mouth tightened, and she fixed a burning stare on me. "Why are you telling me? Why not Detective Inspector Lestrade? Has the family been alerted yet?"

I shrugged. "Lestrade deputized me. He's busy."

"Bullshit," she said sharply, letting slip a little New Jersey twang. "Lestrade would never deputize you. The way I hear it, you're more trouble for Scotland Yard than I am."

I grinned at that. "I like to think I'm doing some good in the world."

She crossed her arms, and tilted her head, regarding me in much the same way a cat might regard a cornered rodent, and said in her sweetest voice, "Sherlock. I will be working closely with the police , overseeing the investigation. If you jeopardize the integrity of my case with your stupid little magic tricks, I will have you in court so fast it will break the sound barrier."

"I thought we weren't on a first name basis, _Irene_," I purred, hoping it would incense her, but she was unruffled.

"Stay out of my way," she ordered. "And stay away from my clients, or I'll file an injunction against you. I've got your number."

I clapped my hands together. "Excellent. Ring me round eight?"

She turned her back on us, stilettos clicking as she walked away. She didn't break her stride as she flipped us the bird over her shoulder, and walked out.

"Whew," John said, as if he'd just run a distance race.

"Precisely," I said. "Come on, let's employ our time with something less unpleasant."

"Like what?"

"Cutting up a corpse. Shall we?"


	4. molly's chambers

John Watson's Blog

April 10th (continued)

Sherlock took me to meet Irene Adler. It was quite clear to me that the two of them had a history. She struck me as a being a real shark of a woman, and beautiful in a way that is sharp enough to cut a man in half. Sherlock identified her as the most dangerous woman in London, and he seemed positively gleeful as he confronted her.

For some reason, he had taken it upon himself to tell her about Caleb Marcel's death. Her reaction was remarkably controlled, especially considering what I later learned. Sherlock was kind enough to brief me in the taxi on the way to the morgue.

"So, Irene Adler," I said. "Would you like to tell me what that little tiff was about?"

Sherlock didn't look at me. He stared dreamily out the window, his eyes moving over pedestrians, no doubt observing the personal habits and occupations of each one.

He heaved a sigh, resigned to explaining it to me. "I've been pursuing the leader of the Syndicate as long as she's been defending him. Caleb Marcel depended on Irene to shield him from the eyes of the law, and to protect his and his family's interests. To date, she has defended him three times in court against murder charges, and generally had an easy time of it. The key witnesses have a habit of disappearing."

"How did you meet?"

"I was a key witness in one of the murder cases." He smiled a little. "It was fun. Lestrade doesn't let me testify often; he says I alienate the jury."

"Really," I said. "How come you didn't get disappeared too?"

"The Syndicate tried. Let us simply say that Mycroft assisted me out of that one. One of the few times he's ever proved useful." His smile turned into a slight sneer.

"Okay, so you were a witness. What happened?"

"I was engaged to try and pin one of these disappearances on Caleb, and I would have succeeded if the Crown Prosecutor hadn't been taking graft from the Syndicate. He tampered with key evidence, and it was declared inadmissible. I brought it to Lestrade's attention, but the prosecutor in question vanished off the coast of Bermuda during a deep sea fishing trip before we could bring him up on charges."

"So Irene is basically a mob lawyer. She ever put a severed horse's head in your bed?"

"Mmm. Whether Irene's involvement extends further into the Syndicate remains to be seen, but I have a suspicion that she was acting in a greater capacity than just defence. Did you see the way she reacted?"

I shrugged. "A little shocked, I guess. Her client had just been killed."

Sherlock looked at me, an eyebrow cocked. "Her clients get killed all the time. Doesn't usually bother her."

"Well, Caleb was her main client."

"Yes, but he was enjoying his position a little too well. She should have been prepared for this."

I sat back into the seat and let my head roll back. It was not even noon and I was already exhausted, but it was an occupational hazard when we were on a case. I glanced at Sherlock. He had that expression of deep contemplation, his hands in prayer position, chin resting on his fingertips.

"You have a crush on her," I said.

He looked sideways at me, clearly taken aback. "What?"

"I said you have a crush on her."

The baffled expression on his face was deeply satisfying. "A crush on who?"

"Irene Adler, _obviously_," I savoured the word like it was the finest champagne.

Sherlock fixed me with a penetrating glare. "I do not have a crush on her. I do not have crushes."

I grinned. "You've kept tabs on her for three years. I saw how you treated her. If you were at primary school together, you'd be yanking on her pigtails and putting frogs in her desk."

He looked at me like I'd just announced the death of logic and reason. "Is that some kind of freak adolescent mating ritual?"

It was indecent how much I was enjoying myself. I so rarely got the opportunity to tease him. "Well, I suppose when you've been shipped off to boarding school the moment you learn to walk, you miss out on a lot of basic human behavioural development."

"You are completely out of your mind." He turned back to his study of the outside world. I leaned my head back, feeling quite serene.

"I have to admit, she is a piece of work," I said to the upholstered ceiling.

"I suppose so," he grumbled.

"So are you. It makes sense, really."

He turned to me, his lip curling. "My interest in Irene Adler is strictly professional. Any regard I have for her is based solely on the face that she, out of a multitude of consummate criminal fuck ups, actually presents me with a challenge that's worthy of my attention."

With that, he turned away, ignoring me furiously. I smiled inwardly, and congratulated myself on scoring one for Team Ordinary.

He was still sulking a little when we arrived at the morgue, but he brightened as soon as we got to the exam room. Molly Hooper, as usual, was hovering at the edge of the room, pointedly not looking at Sherlock. She smiled at me, and gave me a little wave. "Hi."

I smiled back. The poor kid had it bad for him, and he had more than once taken advantage of that, only to turn around and emotionally eviscerate her. So it was understandable that she was a little gun-shy.

In Sherlock's defense, he had tred to make a greater effort to be kinder to her in light of recent events. She had taken more than her share of knocks, and had kept it together where a lesser soul might have unraveled.

Sherlock peeled his coat off and draped it over a stool."Molly. Hello. Have you started yet?"

"They told me you were coming, so I waited."

"Excellent." Sherlock snapped on a pair of latex gloves and handed some to me. He approached the slab, bowed his head for a moment as if giving thanks, and then proceeded to unzip the body bag.

Molly took one look at the corpse, coughed, then said in a slightly high voice, "coffee anyone?"

"Please," I said.

I didn't blame her. Caleb's perforated skull was not any easier to look at than it had been a few hours ago. Even for a veteran medical examiner, violent deaths still evoked some pathos. But Molly was tougher than she got credit for. It was fortunate for her that she could still be affected by it; my pathology instructor had advised the class that it was good if they could get over the physical reaction, but when they stopped reacting emotionally, it was time to hang up the apron.

It worried me that Sherlock was completely unmoved by death, no matter how defaced or mutilated the victim. He was considering the head wound with clinical interest, then beckoned to Molly as she set down two cups. He regarded her calmly. "I want to skip right to the internal."

"But-"

He cut her off with a raised hand. "We know the cause of death, but I need to examine the inside of his skull so I can determine the calibre of the bullet that killed him. You can do your external and chest cavity afterwards. Okay?"

She seemed a little thrown by his asking permission, but she nodded. "Okay. I'll get the saw."

"Good girl."

I think, under the cold mask, he was secretly fond of her, regarding her as something of an annoying little sister. And he had respect for anyone who could handle a Stryker autopsy saw. She bounced a little as she walked back, the saw in one hand, and a set of butcher aprons over her arm. She set down the saw and passed them around. We all put them on, and bent over the corpse.

Molly slipped a head block under the neck, raising the head, then moved around to the front with the saw in hand. Sherlock looked at the saw expectantly, then at her. She raised her eyebrows. He hesitated for a moment, then indicated the corpse with a wave of his hand. "Ladies first."

"Thank you." She raised the saw. "If you'd care to stand a little farther away from the table."

We obediently stepped back, and watched as Molly pulled the exam lamp down, withdrew a scalpel from her pocket. She made an incision from the bridge of the nose, over the skull to a point level with the top of the ear, from there across the back of the head, around the cheek, under the empty eye socket until it met the incision back at the bridge of the nose.

She balanced the circular blade on the incision mark, and flipped the switch. There was a buzz and a fine spray of blood and tissue, but Molly was undeterred. Quickly and carefully, she cut along the line she had scored. In less than a minute, she was prising the bone off, revealing a section of the _dura mater_, the outer layer of the _meninges_, the membrane that encased the brain. Without looking at either of us, she held out a hand. "Eighteen."

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't balk at being treated like a surgical nurse, but turned to the instrument tray, selected the correct scalpel and put it in her hand. He watched closely as she worked, making deep incisions into the brain. His own technique was quite refined for someone without medical training, but Molly did this all day every day. She had surgical precision, and I thought it was a shame that her talents were wasted on the dead. She had once confided to me that she didn't want to be a trauma surgeon because the hours were crap and she enjoyed taking her time.

The section of brain was out and placed in a metal pan. She brought the light closer, and we could see a cross-section of the gunshot wound. Just behind the bisected eye socket, it had made an entrance wound about the width of a thumb, and then blossomed into a fissure that was at least three inches wide, finishing in the bloody exit wound.

Sherlock bent over it, then stood up abruptly with a "ha!" of satisfaction. "Going by the pattern of entry, and the size of the holes in the windows, it's a .50 Action Express. Favoured ammunition for the Desert Eagle, and a very loud weapon."

"So is a shotgun," I pointed out.

"Ah, but. Both sounds travel, so a person wouldn't necessarily have to be in close proximity to hear all the shots. And the order of the shots will tell us quite a lot."

"Do they have an aural witness?" Molly asked.

Sherlock stripped off the autopsy apron, which now had a tiny splatter of blood on it. "No. Lestrade would text me. But it's also possible that he hasn't looked properly. Come on, John, we need to get back to the building site."

"What? Why?"

He ignored me and turned to Molly. "Thank you for your help."

She blushed and stammered for a moment, then settled on a quick "bye."

I pulled off the apron and handed it Molly, annoyed at having to double my stride to catch up with him. Still, he was learning.


	5. irregulars underground

John Watson's Blog

April 10th (continued)

By the time we arrived at the site, the Cadillac Escalade had been removed, presumably to the vehicle forensics' garage. The crime scene was still cordoned off, but Sherlock casually tugged loose the police tape, and walked across it. He headed straight for the shell of a office-block building that appeared to be half demolished. It had been partially gutted, showing a cross section of twenty or so floors. Sherlock hopped over a gap into the ground floor. I followed him as he made his way to a door marked "basement access". The doorknob was locked, but he was equal to that.

"Easy one. Pity." He pulled out a multi-tool, flipped out a file and wedged it into the seam, pressing the bolt in, then pulled the door open. We walked into the stairwell, and he let the door close behind us.

As we made our way down the stairs, I noticed candle wax drippings on each step, but no candles. I started to get an idea of what he was looking for. As we proceeded into the darkness, he pulled out a small but powerful LED flashlight and clicked it on. We followed footprints through the cement dust, until we reached another door. Sherlock opened it and showed me the strip of duct-tape pasted over the bolt lock.

We crossed the basement threshold. The small windows had been pushed open, and the cool air had pooled what was essentially a cement box. There were plenty more wax candle remnants, and black sooty stains on the ceiling. There were also signs that something had been dragged through the dust, and many sets of foot prints. Sherlock beckoned me over to what looked like a supply closet. He used the file to open it, and there were several neatly packed sleeping bags.

He fished through his pockets, and came up with a small notebook. He removed the pen that was clipped to it, and scribbled something on a sheet of paper. He tore it out and folded it, then slipped it into one of the sleeping bags and closed the closet door.

Five minutes later, to my great relief, we were in a taxi heading back to Baker Street.


	6. boys with toys

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 11

Called Lestrade at midnight. He must have been asleep because he wasn't answering texts. He thankfully does not pitch a fit when I call him late, and usually shows up in good time when I need him to. I needed him to let me into the police gun range. I'd have broken in, as I often do with the morgue and the forensic laboratory, but the drawback to live fire is that the night watchman tends to notice.

I told Lestrade to bring me a .12 gauge pump-action shotgun, some buckshot, and a Desert Eagle with .50 AE rounds. "What?" He squawked. "Where the hell am I going to get-"

"Don't play games," I said. "I know you have an entire arsenal locked in evidence. And let's not forget your own personal collection."

"How do you know about that?" he asked, clearly floored. I decided it would be better to not tell him I'd pick-pocketed his keys, made copies and searched his flat when we'd first met. I'd suspected him of taking graft. Fortunately, when confronted, he explained that he had been under cover.

"Meet me at the range in an hour," I said, and pressed the end key on my mobile.

An hour and ten minutes later, Lestrade got out of his sedan, a large black gym bag in one hand.

"You're late," I said.

He handed me the bag and growled, "Yes, well, it took me a little while to get my hands on your bloody anti-aircraft guns."

"Cheers," I said. He heaved a sigh, and went to unlock the doors.

We signed in with the night watchman, and went into the sound-proofed shooting gallery. I unzipped the bag, and looked at Lestrade. "Shotgun or pistol?"

He eyed the guns, then bent down and picked up the shotgun. "What exactly are we meant to accomplish here?"

"Come now, you aren't that dim."

"Sherlock."

"We're shooting off high-powered firearms. What did you think?"

"That did occur to me, but why?"

"Patience, Detective Inspector. All shall be revealed."

I balanced the Desert Eagle in one hand, then took a stall. Lestrade followed my lead, and took the stall next to me. I pulled a little digital recorder out of my pocket and set it on the ledge. "When I count to three, I want you to wait a second, then fire three times."

"Okay."

"One...two...three!" I hit the record button on the digital recorder, then raised the pistol in both hands, braced myself and squeezed off two rounds, perfectly in time with the blasts erupting next to me.

I halted the recording. "Good. Now, I want you to fire three blasts. I'll fire two shots after you. Then the reverse, two shots, a beat, and three blasts. Got it?"

"Got it."

I pressed the record button again, and we fired in the first sequence, then the second. To Lestrade's credit, he had perfect timing. I popped the clip out of the handgun and handed it to him. He looked at me, frowning.

"What was the point of that? Why the spaces between? We know the the weapons in the car were never discharged; they had to have been killed simultaneously."

"Oh, use your head, Lestrade. How long does it take to shoot through bullet-resistant glass with a weapon like that?" I indicated the shotgun in his hand.

Now he was visibly confused. "What are you getting at? Are you saying they were killed one after the other? How is that possible?"

"You're getting warmer. Find the driver's body, and you'll get a clearer idea." I held up the little recorder. "I have to get back to Baker Street. I have to interview a witness tomorrow."

"What witness?" Lestrade demanded. "We don't have a witness."

"Not yet. I've got work to do." I turned away and walked away. "Au revior."

Back at the flat, I sat down in front of my glowing computer screen. I loaded the recording into an editing program, and cut up the file into manageable pieces. Then I signed off, and wandered into my bedroom. I spent the next six hours staring up at my ceiling, trying to turn my mind off, with no success.

I must have fallen into a doze, because I was awoken by knocking at my door. I checked the clock: 8:34. I pulled myself up and shrugged into my bathrobe. Mrs. Hudson was hovering a few feet back from the door, as if I might charge out with a tyre iron in hand. I yawned. "What?"

"There's, um...someone to see you. Downstairs."

"A disenfranchised individual?"

She looked slightly relieved at being supplied with a politically correct term. "Yes. She says you want to see her."

"Send her up. John!" I called up the stairs. I could hear his snoring through his door. I took the stairs three steps at a time, and pounded on his door. "Wake up."

A moment later, he'd ambled down in running sweats and a Van Halen shirt. He jumped as he saw my guest. "Jesus."

The woman was looking at both of us warily. Homelessness had not been kind to her. Her face was deeply lined, and grimy. What little of her hair I could see under her hood had gone to dreadlocks from lack of washing. She might have been forty or seventy. She had the faint smell of schizophrenia on her, but she seemed alert as she took a cautious step towards John and said in a raspy voice, "Mr. Holmes?" She emphasized the "h", clearly trying not to drop it.

"No, he's-" he paused, recovered quickly. "My name is John. It's nice to meet you."

"I'm Sadie," she said, looking uncertainly at me.

"Sadie...?" I waited for her to supply a last name, but was unsurprised by her reticence. I offered my hand, hoping to put her at ease.

She looked at it for a moment, then shook it by two fingers. "Just Sadie."

"Okay, Just Sadie. Did you get my note?"

She handed me a dirty piece of notepaper with my handwriting on it: Information re: April 10. Apply at 21 B Baker Street, ask for Sherlock Holmes- £100. I took the note, then crumpled it up and tossed it in the fire grate. "Have a seat."

She sat down on the sofa. I took my laptop and set it on the coffee table, then plugged my speakers into the headphone jack. "Sadie, I want to ask you what happened the night before last. At the building site. Would you be willing to record your answers for me?"

"S'long as no one at the camp's bothered."

"You have my word." I said. "Tell me, were you at the camp all night?"

"Yeah. Few of my mates, too. It were cold."

"Did you hear something during the night?"

She nodded. "Shooters. Lots of 'em. Loud, like. I looked outside but there were a big dirt pile in the way. We cleared out when we heard the sirens."

"I'm going to play some recordings for you. I want you to tell me if any of them are close to what you heard."

"'Kay."

I pushed the space bar, and the first file played. The sound was a cacophony of gunfire. It was difficult to identify the pistol shots from the shotgun blasts. It stopped after about ten seconds.

Sadie shook her head. "No, it weren't like that. Not all at once, like."

I played the next file for her, three blasts, and two shots. She shook her head again. "No, it were more like-"

I held up a hand and she fell quiet. I tapped the space bar one more time, and the last sequence played. "Well?"

"Yeah, it were more like that," she said confidently. "But there were more space between the bangs and the booms."

Satisfied, I leaned back in my chair and put my fingers together.

"It were still wrong, though," Sadie broke in. "There were only one bang. One bang, then three booms."

"One shot?" I demanded, my attention seized. " Are you certain?"

"I know what I heard, Mr. Holmes," she said stubbornly. "Are you still gonna pay me?"

I focused all my intensity on her. "Would you be willing to testify to that at Scotland Yard?"

She hesitated. I scooted my chair forward and looked her in the eyes. "You wouldn't have to sit in the courtroom. Just sign a statement that what you've told me here is accurate."

"Would I get another reward?" she asked optimistically.

I looked over at John, who gave a tiny shrug, then pressed the stop button on my recorder. "That can be arranged."

"Okay."

I got up out of my chair and went over to my desk. I pulled out a roll of notes, and peeled off two fifties. I held them out to her. "When you go to Scotland Yard, ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade, and tell him I sent you."

"I'll do that. I'd best be going, Mr. Holmes."

"One more thing, Sadie. You need to see a doctor soon, today if you can. There's a good clinic in Lambeth. I can order a taxi, if you'd like."

She expressed no surprise, but appraised me with cool eyes. She squirreled her cash into an inside pocket of her long coat and turned away. "I can take the bus."

Both John and I watched her retreating back as she walked down the stairs. I went to a kitchen cupboard, pulled out a can of Lysol and a bottle of hand sanitizer. I tossed the can to John, who caught it and held it, watching me.

"How did you know?"

I pumped some sanitizer out and rubbed it into my skin. "I saw the rash on her wrist when she shook my hand. Didn't you see how gingerly she was walked? Sores on her feet."

John started to spray some of the Lysol on the sofa. "It must be pretty far along. Doctor might not be able to do much at this stage."

"Just as long as she gives her statement before she bites the big one. Never underestimate the healing power of Rivatril and Oxycontin."

John stopped and looked hard at me for a full minute. "You're really sick, you know that?"

"I am aware of the fact, doctor," I deadpanned. "Trust me when I say there is no cure."

He looked at me for another moment, apparently trying to find some admonishment, but gave up. "I'm going to Sarah's."

"Physician, heal thyself," I said softly, but he was already up the stairs.


	7. taking liberties

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 11 (continued)

The traffic was slow going through Westminster, so I made a quick phone call. Normally I'd text, but this required clear acknowledgment of my request. I dialed up Molly Hooper.

"Hi," she chirped.

I forced down a feeling of nausea. "Hello, Molly. I need a favour."

"Okay," she said in that kicked-puppy-I'll-do-anything voice. "What do you need?"

"I need you to gather up all of the glass from the back seat of the car."

"I can do that."

"And reassemble it."

"Oh," she breathed in surprise.

"Text me when you're done."

I hung up. My taxi had made it up to the front of the queue and in no time, we pulled up at the Kensington address I had specified. I tipped the cabbie, got out, and surveyed my destination. It was clearly a nice place, one of many terraced Victorians. It even had a fenced in front garden, with a row of newly blooming crocuses, bordered by river stones.

There was no space for a car in the back. Clearly a public transit commuter. Checking through the post slot, I could see envelopes and a magazine on the floor. Post not yet retrieved, so nobody home. I made my way over to the garden, and examined the river stones. One of them was a slightly unnatural pink. I picked it up and flipped it over. There was a little sliding panel, and underneath that, a key hidden in the slot. I set the stone back in place, and then made my way up the steps and let myself into the house.

Just as I was picking up the mail, the security system beeped an alarm. I glanced at the number panel set into the wall, which was counting down from thirty. Without thinking, I jumped over the divan and went to the basement door. I took the steps in two bounds and looked around for a fuse box. There was one set above the washer and dryer. I pulled it open and hit the main breaker. The beeping stopped. I ducked under the stairs and pulled out my flashlight, shining it on a cadre of wires that ran along the insulation. The security system, I knew, was an upgrade, and recently installed. The backup power would be coming on any minute. I examined the wires, and found a bundle that was zip-tied, and was relatively free of dust.

Using my multi-tool, I snipped the wires in half, then went over to flip on the breaker. The house was quiet. I went back upstairs into the sitting room, and had my first good look at the Adler residence.

It was sunny and spacious, with black damask furniture and a black lacquered coffee table. A Japanese screen stood in one corner, complimenting the white-on-gray damask patterned wall. There were also several vases with bouquets of red roses dotting the room. Fresh roses, a dozen in each vase. Above hung a black wrought-iron chandelier. The overall effect was stark, but really quite tasteful. But then, Irene Adler was nothing if not a woman of taste.

I made my way into the kitchen and dug through her liquor cabinet until I came to a half-full bottle of Glenfiddich scotch. I loaded a glass with ice from the stainless steel refrigerator's automatic dispenser, and filled it with scotch. Thus fortified, I continued my tour up the stairs into her bedroom. The spread was basic, but comfortable. Thick white curtains, a bed done up in black, with white sheets. Solid mahogany bedposts, on one of which there hung a white satin negligee.

I went in to her closet, which was converted from the next bedroom. It ended in a vanity with an large mirror. Inside were rows and rows of outfits, all of them carefully pressed. I did notice, however, that there were a pair of sweats and an oversized NYU tee-shirt piled in the vanity's chair. The negligee was clearly not her regular sleeping apparel. She wore it for someone specific. The colleague from the hearing, no doubt.

The drawer in the vanity was locked, but probably wasn't a strong one. I set down my glass and slid the file into the keyhole, and twisted until I heard something click. I pulled out the drawer. The first thing to catch my attention was the silver plated British Bulldog revolver. Cute. Beneath that was a file folder that simply read: LWT-CB. I pulled it out and flipped it open. It was the Last Will and Testament of Caleb Marcel, Entrusted to His Barrister Irene Adler.

Most of the money went to Caleb's next of kin, with various cuts delegated out to extended family. But there was one little caveat. Six percent of Caleb's holdings had been left to Irene. I did a quick calculation in my head. Caleb's had been worth at least fifteen million sterling. Irene would get £90,000, a not inconsiderable sum. She was, however, quite wealthy herself, and in light of that, 90,000 quid was too paltry a sum to kill for, especially in light of the fact that Caleb generated more capital alive than dead. Irene had mined his family for three years; it was unlikely she'd slaughter such a profitable cash cow.

There was an indigo silk handkerchief that had been stuffed into the back corner of the drawer, wrapped around something. A velvet box. I pried it open. There, nestled inside, was a set of diamond stud earrings, five carats at least. Irene would never wear something that large and ostentatious, but the fact that she had kept them was suggestive. The blond associate had not given her these. Too flamboyant by half.

I looked at the handkerchief. It was of very expensive manufacture, probably imported from India, given the quality of the dye. I lifted it to my nose, and detected a trace of cologne. Clive Christian No. 1, at £550 a bottle. I turned it over and saw in the corner, stitched in silver, a character in Arabic script. I was not as proficient in the language as I'd like, but I knew enough to know that the character translated to the letters CB.

I leaned back in the chair, and absorbed this information. I dismissed the idea that the earrings had been merely a gift of gratitude. Caleb Marcel and Irene Adler, lovers? Clearly I had overestimated her good taste. But this was Irene; she must have an ulterior motive. What better way to cement the alliance? It wouldn't be beyond Irene to use sexual subterfuge to gain the confidence of a very powerful criminal organization. It certainly proved one thing: she was far, far more involved with the Syndicate than she had ever let on. Not only that, she was duplicitous to the extreme. She had another lover on the side. Strictly business, or was there something genuine?

The word "genuine" was hardly in her repertoire. All evidence was against it. But then, I hadn't anticipated it.

I considered the myriad of roses downstairs, all of them fresh, a dozen in every vase. I pocketed the handkerchief and the pistol, picked up my scotch, then went out into the bedroom to examine the negligee. Fine silk, but not as fine as the handkerchief. There was also a faint whiff of cologne, but far less. Ralph Lauren, far more conservative than Caleb's chosen scent. Less nauseating, as well. The pillow cases were the same, but with the added hint of rosewater scented conditioner. The blond lawyer must have spent the night, and she hadn't washed the sheets yet. Interesting.

I went down the stairs and back into the kitchen. I bent down and pulled open the doors to the cupboard underneath the sink. There was a rubbish can, stainless steel like the icebox. I took it out and lifted the lid. At the bottom, a bit of gold tissue paper and cellophane. I lifted it out, and looked for the card. It read:

"To my darling. Love, Geoff."

Gag. I shoved the wrapping back into the can, and put it back under the sink, nudging the door shut with my foot. I sauntered back into the sitting room, and retrieved the mail I'd pilfered. I sank back into the armchair near the window, and filed through the letters, most of them bills, one of them a magazine for Barney's New York. One letter caught my eye. The return post address was a Children's Preston Memorial Fund, Suite 1507 at the View Tower, City of London. I slit it open, and tapped out a single sheet of paper, which read thus:

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Board,

"As a reminder, our annual meeting is approaching. Please take some time to outline any concerns you may have, as well as organizing any pledges you have received.

The Preston Fund is stronger than ever, and given the nature of charitable work, every leap we make will benefit our cause. Thousands of underprivileged and impoverished children depend on our organization, and every year that number grows. We must be equally diligent by continuing to support the Preston Fund.

"Please join us next week, so that you can contribute to the improvement of the Fund, and discuss any changes you would like to see made within the administration.

"Yours,

Preston Fund Director

-"

Beneath this was an incomprehensible scrawl of a signature. Even I couldn't discern it. Possibly intentional. I memorized the address, then slid it the paper back into the envelope. I checked my phone for the time. I had perhaps a half an hour to wait. I set the pistol down on the coffee table nearby, and took a good slug of the Glenfiddich.

Quite a few surprises had cropped up in my investigation. The idea that Irene contributed to a charity was throwing me a little. I did entertain the notion that it might be a matter of appearance. I filed it in the back of my mind for later, and nursed my scotch.

In no time at all, I heard the key turn in the lock, the tumblers falling into place. Irene nudged the door open with one hip, her arms filled with a paper grocery bag and a leather case. She kicked off her black trainers, which clashed with her cream-coloured two piece suit. I noticed a pair of matching cream-coloured pumps sitting at the top of the paper bag. She walked right past me and padded into the kitchen, dumping the groceries and the case on the counter.

She noticed the bottle of scotch I'd left out. For a moment, she frowned, then shrugged. She added some ice cubes to a glass and poured herself a few inches. She took a long sip, then rolled her head back, her neck vertebrae making a popping sound. She pinched the bridge of her nose as she walked back into the sitting room. Her view of me was blocked by her hand. I couldn't have that.

"Hello, Irene," I said.

The glass of scotch shattered on the hardwood floor. She stared at me, stunned. Her mouth opened, wordless, and it took her a moment to find her voice. "You...what are you- ?"

She looked at the glass of liquor I had just polished off. "My scotch."

"Let's begin sentence with another word..."

Her eyes flickered down to the coffee table. "My gun."

"Excellent," I said, twisting the pistol on the table so that it was pointed directly at her.

"You broke into my house."

"Technically, I let myself in," I said, tossing the key down next to the gun. "After you change the locks, you might want to find a less predictable place to hide that."

Her shock was melting away, and she was quivering with rage. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I stretched out my arms. "You should probably pour yourself another drink."

"To hell with another drink!"

"Then have a seat." I indicated the sofa opposite.

She sneered, her fists balled up at her sides. "Screw you."

I picked up the Bulldog and cocked the hammer, aiming it between her eyes. "Don't be tedious. Sit down."

She eyed the gun, and slowly took a seat at the edge of the sofa. She gripped it, her manicured fingernails digging into the upholstery.

"What do you want?" she said in a staccato voice, her body rigid.

"Oh, relax," I said. "I'm only going to shoot you if you do something stupid, and I don't think you will."

She did not relax. I shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"Stop fucking around with me."

"You're right, I'm being unfair. I'm not here to kill you. I'm not petty enough to steal from you, though I hope you'll forgive me for appropriating your scotch. I just want information."

She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of information?"

I considered. "Let's start with the basics. Excepting the night before last, how long have you been sleeping with Caleb Marcel?"

She fell back into the couch, and her body went from stiff to limp. "How did you know that?"

I pulled the handkerchief out of my pocket. "Clumsy, especially for you. Also, my pocket reeks cologne; I'm sending you my dry cleaning bill."

She took a deep breath. "A year."

"What was the appeal, Irene? I mean, Caleb Marcel? Could you have chosen anyone more crass?"

"It was just good business, at first. There's a club where I used to sing. I sang a lot in college. I'd already agreed to take him on, and he started coming to see me sing. He said he loved my voice."

"The same voice that defended him in court," I said, shaking my head. "Have you considered the possibility that he was controlling you as much as you were controlling him? If you'd ever betrayed him, he could drop the dime on you at any time."

"No," she insisted. "His family would have abandoned him. They're very close knit, the Marcels. He'd just shoot me. You know how trigger-happy he is. Was."

I nodded. "Did you break it off?"

"Yes. Two days before he was murdered."

"Why?"

"I was sick of it. He was...he wanted a mistress, a gutter-queen. An accessory. He wanted me on his arm for all of his drug deals, and he was a junkie himself. As time went on, the more his mind disintegrated from the drugs, he would lose it, tell me he hated me, that I thought I was better than him, that he'd put me in my place. He'd always give me gifts later, try to buy me off with hideously expensive things. Like you said. Crass."

"Like the diamond studs in your vanity."

"You went through my vanity?" she snapped.

"Obviously," I indicated the pistol. "That was the last straw, wasn't it? Those are valued at 10,000 quid. Insulting to someone who came up from the bottom, surviving on scholarships from prestigious schools. You might spend a £5,000 on a pair of earrings, but never £10,000. You're very practical about luxury, Irene."

She sighed in lieu of telling me to sod off. "Why do you know so many things you have no business knowing?"

"You're unrelenting, tenacious. You offer no quarter. You strive for perfection. You don't take no for an answer, and you don't take time off. You don't aspire to contentment." I paused, steepled my fingers and watched her over my finger tips. "A life of privilege doesn't lend itself to the kind of rage that drives you, Irene."

I could tell I'd struck a chord. Angry tears welled up in her eyes, but she took a deep breath, and used the her thumb to wipe them away. There was something irresistibly decadent about her vulnerability. I felt a deep and sudden urge to take advantage of it, to exploit it. To make those tears fall. But now was not the time. I spared her.

"Some of these roses are wilted," I said quietly. "Tell me about the man who gave them to you. Geoff."

She did not gasp, but stared at me. "Have you been stalking me?"

I grinned. "A little. I went to see you at the Old Bailey. You don't whisper into a colleague's ear like that unless there's some kind of intimate attachment."

"Okay, fine." She smoothed her skirt. "Why did you say that about the roses?"

"Going by the rate of decay, the ones in the vase on the mantelpiece were given to you at least a week ago. Not to mention the note I dug out of your rubbish bin."

She wrinkled her nose. "That is disgusting."

"I've done worse. I could tell you stories."

She held up a hand. "Please don't."

"Okay. Tell me about Geoff. You were involved with him before you ended your affair with Caleb. How far back?"

"A month and a half. It started when I brought him on to help with the workload. Defending the Marcel family is, well..."

"Complex," I supplied.

"We'd work late, order Chinese, and outline strategies. After awhile, he asked me out. He's very charming, Geoffrey. He has manners, and a sense of propriety. It's refreshing, after Caleb. All that drama."

"It sounds spectacularly boring," I remarked.

"Like you'd know," she shot back.

"Granted. I have no interest in dull, ordinary affairs."

"I thought that was the job description," she said with a smirk. "Peeking through windows, taking pictures of cheating girlfriends."

I arched a brow. "My job description is completely unique. I'm not some kind of flatfoot detective in a Sam Spade novel. I'm a consulting detective."

She grinned. "Sounds like a flatfoot to me."

"And that is why you will always resent me," I said. "Because you'll never understand why I do what I do."

"You do it because you're a freak about showing that you're smarter than everyone." She sat back and brushed her hair away from her face. "But you're not smarter than a bullet, Sherlock Holmes, and sooner or later one is going to catch up with you."

"Yes, but you've failed to consider that you're at the mercy of any freaky thing I might do to you." I casually reached down and picked up the revolver. Irene shot out of her seat and made as if to run. I stepped in to her and she took a step back. I backed her all the way to the wall. She she glared up at me, and actually pouted. "But you said..."

I grinned, and jerked the trigger back. It clicked. She flinched, anticipating death, and when she realized it wasn't going to come, she turned on me, murderous. Catching me completely by surprise, she landed a hard punch to my solar plexus. Pain shot through me and my spine bent forward a little. Despite the pain, I still had the presence of mind to body-check her, seize her by the wrists and slam her back against the wall before she could hit me again. The gun fell to the floor between us with a clatter.

"Now, that was just rude," I panted, a little winded.

"Let me go," she demanded, struggling against me.

"If you try that again I'll put you in a sleeper hold and lock you in the basement."

She bit her lip, smoldering mad. "I could call the police and report this."

"Empty threat. I'll declare to all and sundry that you were having an affair with Caleb. You'll be as good as dead the moment you set foot out your door. Lestrade doesn't like you very much, Irene. The most protection he'll offer you is arrest on suspicion of complicity, and the holding cell in Scotland Yard. And while I'm confident you will have a sobering effect on the disenfranchised, the entire Marcel family will have a score to settle with you. It would be very easy to get to you."

She scoffed. "I've had a backup plan for years."

"Believe me, they have too. They're crude, but not stupid enough to overlook the threat you could pose. Your life won't be worth the paper the contract put on you is printed on." I pulled away, releasing her hands."Count on it."

She rubbed her wrists, and gave me a resentful look. "What do you want from me?"

"Cooperation. I want to know whatever you know. But I have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment." I put my toe under the Bulldog and flipped it up into my hand. I moved forward, and she automatically took a step back right into the wall.

I smiled and shook my head, then stepped forward and pressed the gun into her hand. "Keep this loaded, and close by. Much worse than me could come through that door."

She waited until I was at the door before calling to me, "Sherlock."

I whirled around, and fixed her with a stare. "What?"

Her eyes were a little wide. "I...never mind."

"Take care of yourself, Irene." I turned and walked out the door, stuffing the letter from the Preston Fund into my pocket.


	8. operation reconnoiter

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 11 (continued)

John wasn't at the flat when I got back. It seemed that his visit with Sarah would be an all-night affair. He had apparently graduated from the sofa. I went to my desk and woke up the display on my netbook. Working quickly, I called up a search engine and typed in the words "Children Preston Memorial Fund."

I was rewarded with an official website. Most of the front page was dominated by the specific charitable works, and a biography of Sir Edward Preston. Boring. I clicked down to the board of directors, which proved to be more interesting.

Irene Adler was listed alphabetically at the top, in the office of treasury secretary. A few other people were listed, including a MP, and some other crusty old men. My attention was drawn to the photograph of the Head Director. It was the blond lawyer, Geoffry Norton. I meditated for a moment, pondering the connection. More data. I'd have to do some more legwork.

Getting to Irene's firm wasn't difficult. It was in the business district, occupying floors 30 through 37 of a highrise. I jumped into the elevator and punched in the number. I was met by a sphinx of a receptionist, platinum blond and dressed in a rigidly starched navy suit. She looked at me with critical eyes.

"May I help you?" she said in a slightly robotic monotone.

I approached the desk. "Actually, I have an appointment."

She clicked away at her keyboard. Fortunately for me, the firm's architect had made a logistical oversight. The tinted glass partition behind the reception desk was an ideal reflective surface. I could easily read the display as she scrolled through it and stopped at a time slot. The name was a single appointment, probably the first, so it was unlikely she'd be familiar with the individual.

"4:30...name?"

I read the backwards display. "Raymond Lasseter."

She stood up, swiped a key card in the reader set in the door, and held it open for me. "Mr. Norton's personal assistant will show you in. The first cubicle on the left."

I walked through without sparing her a smile, and walked down the hall until I reached a block of cubicles. The lighting overhead was stark florescent tubes set in a row, giving everything a sickly gleam. The buzzing sound the poor drones endured no doubt rang in their ears even after they left the office. Norton's personal assistant's loyalty probably didn't stretch very far. I found him, a sallow looking man whose vacant stare spoke of a lot of sleep deprivation. I rapped my knuckles on the cubicle wall.

"Are you Mr. Norton's assistant?"

He leaned back from his desk, and I spotted a name plate: M. Peterson. He stood up. "You have an appointment?"

"Yes. Ray Lasseter," I offered my hand. He stared at it for a moment, as if unsure how to react, then shook it firmly. "Mark Peterson. I'm his paralegal assistant. I'll show you over to his office."

Many working-class people were easily won over with a smile and a firm handshake. It was evident that even the minor act of courtesy was more respect than he got in a month. There was a little more purpose to his step as he led me over to a corner office, swiped a key card and let me in. "Is there anything I can get you? Coffee? Water?"

I smiled and shook my head. "Thank you, no."

He nodded and ducked out of the office, closing the door behind him. I immediately went to the desk, and looked over the contents scattered across it. There was a blotter with some papers on it, a laptop computer, a set of Monte Blanc collectors pens, and a framed photograph of a set of tow-headed children flanking an equally blond woman, all seated in a portrait. Trophy wife gone to seed, if the tired smile was any evidence. The children were young, perhaps five or six years old. A boy and a girl, twins, and both of them seemed to be drowsing. They had probably been deliberately worn out as a tactic against hyperactivity. Or maybe Mother had slipped them a Valium or two. Norton himself did not appear in the photo.

The rest of the desk was clear. I looked briefly at the papers. Most of them dealt with depositions, but one of them was a print out of the Preston Fund monthly bank statement. I heard footsteps outside, folded the paper and stuffed in into my pocket, then took a seat. Geoffry Norton came in and let the door swing shut behind him. I stood, and took the proffered hand. His handshake was brisk and business like.

"Mr. Lasseter. Good to meet you. I hope I didn't keep you waiting long."

"No, not at all." I said, taking in his appearance. He was handsome in a completely unremarkable way, and there was something falsely ingratiating about the smile plastered on his face. Either Irene's standards had really taken a plunge, or there was some as yet undiscovered appeal. Caleb Marcel might be unseemly, but he couldn't have been more boring than this man.

Norton settled in the chair, leaned back and laced his fingers across his chest. "I understand you're a representative of the club, but I have to tell you, we're still waiting for an appraisal. It's a big investment, you understand."

I tilted my head and sucked my teeth, like I was just shy of amenable. "How much are you willing to invest?"

"Oh, we want the whole thing. The board has agreed on it. The lodge, the fairway, and the lake. The old retreat is getting too small, and frankly, some of the lads have complained about the wind patterns being an impediment to their game."

Good, this was going to be easy. "There are several properties on the market that fit that description."

"The Lake District, obviously." He frowned at me. "Didn't they brief you?"

"I was given to understand that you were interested in more than one location. That was the email I was sent, in any case. I'm glad to see your interests have advanced."

"Are you willing to name a figure?"

I stood up. "You know, I would, but prolonging this incredibly dull discussion would be excruciatingly tedious. And by the way, your wife is about to divorce you. She's going to try and take you for all you're worth, so you'd better start destroying the evidence of your affair post-haste."

Norton shot up out of his chair, his face going red. "What in the hell-"

"Bye now," I turned on my heel and walked rapidly out of the office. I hit the elevator button on my way out and walked into the emergency stairwell. By the time security had made it to the lobby, I was in a taxi back to Baker Street.

Back at the flat, I assessed the situation as the sun was going down. The facts were these: two nights ago, Caleb Marcel had been shot to death. The driver had been disposed of. There were five shots, but only four were heard. The driver had been killed by some means that could not be discerned unless his body was recovered.

Irene Adler had been sleeping with Caleb. She'd also been sleeping with Norton. She also occupied a position of trust within the Marcel family, and they weren't on to her, or she'd be in the morgue next to Caleb with her skull blown to bits.

Then there was the Preston Fund. I had spread out the statement before me, and had been rather surprised by the sum the charity had managed to accumulate. Upwards of ₤20,000,000. But then, it was one of the larger charities, and must have supplied a lot of subsidiaries. Some of the deposits were care of the Charity Commission, the branch of the British Government that regulated the amount of public funding a charity could receive. It looked to be quite a lot more than was typically allowed.

Corruption was rife among the city boys, and a firm of that size would have no trouble buying off one of the regulators. The Preston Fund could easily be used to socket funds away, especially if the assigned regulator was taking bribes. It would give Irene Adler a much greater incentive to get involved with a complete dullard like Norton.

I tossed the paper down, and picked up my digital recorder. I hit the play button, and listened to Sadie's statement again. Four shots, five holes. A silencer? Why would a silencer be used for one of the shots and not the other? I needed more. I could see the possibility, but I needed confirmation. And for that, I needed Molly.

I stretched out on the couch, and hit the speed dial button. She answered on the second ring.

"Sherlock, hi. I was just about to ring you." She sounded out of breath.

"What have you found?"

"I'm not completely sure, but I think you need to need to come see. I'm at the lab."

"Ten minutes." I hung up.

Molly was bent over a pan of fragmented glass. She looked up as I entered the room, and beckoned me over. "This is completely weird."

I looked down at the fractured piece of window. Even though the the glass was plasticized and bits clung to each other, it had clearly take some effort to reassemble it. I gave her a thin smile. "You did well. I appreciate it."

She went a little pink, then cleared her throat, trying to regain her professional demeanour. "Thanks."

I turned my attention back to the contents of my pan. There were several small holes, but none of them were bullet-shaped. I straightened up and looked at her. "You didn't miss any pieces?"

She shook her head. "They're drill holes. I saw them once, in a robbery case."

"Drill holes. No bullet holes," I said. "They didn't shoot through it. They weakened it with a power drill and smashed it. Probably with a sledgehammer."

"What does that mean for the case?" Molly asked. But I was already on my mobile.

"Lestrade. Inside. There was someone else inside the car. The hole in the window's a misdirection. There's no bullet hole in it, and I have a witness who can testify that she only heard four shots. It had to be someone inside the car, someone who could move quick enough to-"

He interrupted me. "Sherlock. We just got an anonymous tip. Another murder."

"Excellent! Where?"

"We're at your flat. Get here. Fast."


	9. shocking

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 11 (continued)

I tore the crime scene tape away from the front door and took the steps three at a time. Lestrade was waiting for me, and a cadre of crime scene specialists were sliding a plastic sheet under the body of Alexander Cavuto. Lex. My dealer. He was recognizable by the shaved tribal patterns on his head, but his face was gone. Simply gone. It was a raw hole, a mass of carnage.

"We know you didn't do it, Sherlock," Lestrade said, sidling past me. "Mrs. Hudson saw you leave an hour ago, and Molly vouched."

"Where is Mrs. Hudson?"

"At her sister's. I told her it wasn't safe, and to stay away."

"Good."

"You shouldn't be here either, Sherlock." Concern was written all over his face. "They know who you are and what you're doing; you're a sitting duck if you stay here."

"I know." I said, more concerned with the body. I'd better give them something. Lex didn't use names in his Blackberry, but the numbers were saved. "This is my snitch. His name is Alexander Cavuto, called Lex."

"Jesus. They just murdered a friend of yours and left his body in your flat." He stepped up to me and looked me square in the eyes, clearly afraid for me." What is it going to take to make you take them seriously? They will kill you, Sherlock."

"I didn't say he was my friend." I brushed him aside and pulled on a pair of exam gloves. If Lex had anything on him, they'd connect it with me. Lestrade knew that I had a questionable past, but after five years, he'd never caught me at the game. Mycroft, in whatever way, had told him in so many words to leave it alone. But I knew he had suspicions.

I bent down and made a show of examining the body. I slipped my hand inside his velvet coat and felt a small bag in one pocket. I secreted it up my sleeve, then searched the other side and came up with a mobile phone. I dropped it into an evidence bag, and handed it to Lestrade.

"The round is the same one killed Caleb Marcel. He was shot in the back of the head, execution style. Somewhere in the outdoors, going by the grit and leaves on the knees of his track suit. Check the phone. The odds are high that whoever ordered the hit is somewhere in his contacts."

Lestrade's mobile started buzzing. He pulled it out its holster and answered it. "Lestrade. Uniforms already there? I'm on my way."

He hung up and replaced the phone. "Shots fired at Irene Adler's place."

"Did she fire them?"

"I don't know. Listen, I want you to go to the Yard and-"

"No," I countered. "I'm coming with you. Tell them to get the corpse out of my flat."

"Sherlock, we need a statement."

"No time." I started down the stairs. "Come on!"

Police lights danced across the facade of Irene Adler's home. I could immediately see the reason for their presence. There were two distinctive holes in the front windows, each the size of a pound coin. Uniforms were going in and out of the house, milling about and being generally useless. One of the forensic team walked out carrying an evidence bag containing two slugs that must have been pried out of the wall. Even from a distance, I could identify them as .50 Action Express.

Irene was sitting in the back of an ambulance, an orange blanket around her shoulders. An EMT appeared to be taking her vital signs. She was dressed in her sweats and NYU shirt, and looked serenely vacant. They must have given her anti-anxiety medication.

Lestrade went to go talk to one of the uniforms. I sauntered over to Irene and leaned against the ambulance.

She looked at me sleepily. "They keep putting this blanket on me."

I smiled. "Annoying, isn't it."

"It's orange."

"Yes, it is. Apparently orange cures shock."

She shrugged it off and let it fall on the ground. "Not my colour."

"It's cold outside."

"Yep."

I held her gaze for a moment. A tiny tug appeared at the corner of her mouth. I rolled my eyes, stripped off my coat, and offered it to her. She took it, and wrapped it around her shoulders, then looked out on the busy scene. "See. You're easy."

"I'm bloody fond of that coat. Anything happens to it, they'll never find your body."

Lestrade approached us. He looked at Irene. "Would you be willing to give evidence? All the evidence?"

Irene bit her lip, and nodded.

"You can give a statement tomorrow. But for now, we need to move you somewhere safe."

"My place," I said.

Irene turned to look at me. "What?"

Lestrade stared at me, his eyebrows raised enough to make his eyes go wide. "Just in case I missed the memo, are you completely out of your mind? Your enemies put the body of your murdered associate in your flat. They have emphatically proven they can get to you. What insanity could possibly compel you to return?"

I sighed. "Lestrade, think. They expect me to run. It's the last place they'll look for me. There's a back entrance and the alley is well lighted. Absolutely no place for surveillance to hide. Baker Street is crawling with police. Trust me, the Syndicate will leave off until they're gone."

Lestrade looked hard at me. "This flies in the face of reason in so many ways."

"That's precisely why it will work."

Lestrade took a deep breath. "Okay. But I'm leaving a squad car in front."

"Hold on a minute." Irene stood up. "Who said I was going anywhere with anyone?"

"You'll be safer with me. You know it's true."

She shifted uncomfortably. "You just want to keep an eye on me."

"Yes, that too," I said impatiently. "Will you come?"

She chewed the inside of her cheek, then pulled my coat tighter about her. "Okay."

"Go pack some clothes."


	10. addictions

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes  
April 11 (continued)

I closed the door behind us and told Irene to wait while I crept downstairs and flipped the main breaker off. The lights Mrs. Hudson had left on in her haste to leave blinked out. I led Irene up the stairs and made her stand in the hall while I ducked into the flat and pulled shut the blinds. When I was satisfied, I went to rustle up a few candles from under the sink. I lit them and set them on the coffee table.

Irene stepped across threshold, careful to avoid the blood soaked patch on the carpet. I took my coat off her shoulders and tossed it over a chair. Irene took a seat on the sofa, stiff at first, then she turned and lay back on it, filling in the dent I usually occupied. I dragged my chair around so I faced her.

"There are bullet holes in your wall," she remarked. The candles illuminated her dark skin, throwing her shadow on the wall.

"Therapy," I said by way of explanation.

"Where's your friend?"

"Out."

Irene propped herself up on her elbows. "Did you have a fight?"

"No."

"Ah."

I leaned back and rolled my eyes at the ceiling. "You can take my bed if you want. I don't sleep in it much."

She grinned at me. "I knew it."

"You've got it all wrong, Irene."

"Oh, really."

I licked my lips and grinned. "I'm not really John's type."

She rolled her head back, trying to loosen her tense muscles. "So that's why he's out?"

"I don't know. I don't really play for any team, Irene. I just am. Best left alone."

She snorted. "You're a liar. You don't have to be Freud to guess what you were thinking when you were pointing that gun at me."

I leaned forward. "Don't flatter yourself."

"You don't like women, do you?"

"They're tedious."

"I'm tempted to take offense." She lay back down, head turned to look at me.

I worried a little at my sleeve where Lex's blood had stained it. "You know what I don't understand? The thing for married men. It's just not your style."

She laughed, a low sound in her throat. "You're right, it's not."

"Norton is a half-wit."

"That's unfair." She paused, looked at me, a twinkle in her eyes. "To half-wits."

"Is it because of the Preston Fund?"

"You know about that?" She sighed. "Of course you know about that. The short answer is, Geoffry thinks he's in love with me, and like most men, feels compelled to demonstrate it by doing something completely asinine."

Now I was interested. I leaned forward. "Elaborate."

"The Preston Fund is a repository for the Syndicate. You've probably already figured that out. Geoffry administrates it. You could say that he acts as something of an accountant for the organization."

"He's that involved? Did he start skimming off the top?"

"Oh no. More ambitious than that. He was very, very jealous of Caleb. Not just because of me. Here he had access to all this money, and if he touched any of it, he'd get knocked off."

"You didn't just act as defense counsel, did you, Irene."

She looked at me like I was slow, and I felt a little jangled. She turned and spoke to the ceiling. "I acted, more or less, in the capacity of _consigliere_. I oversaw the transfer of funds, acted as an adviser, streamlined the delivery systems. I was even a shoulder to cry on. You don't really think a troglodyte like Caleb could have managed something as complicated and intricate as the Syndicate by himself, do you?"

"So why Norton, then? Were you planning on stealing the money together?"

She shook her head. "No. He was planning to steal the money. I wanted no part of it. Truth be told, he was just rebound. But he started to get obsessive, just the way Caleb did. You saw all those roses. I get those every few days."

I put the tips of my fingers together and pressed them against my mouth. "Norton did it. He shot Caleb and made it look like a hit so it wouldn't come back on him, because he wants to take over. But why would he shoot at you?"

"He bugged my house. I would hazard a guess that he heard you on the recording and got the wrong idea. Like I said, annoying."

I pulled out my phone, and sent a text to Lestrade, then replaced it in my pocket.

"Will he try to run? Empty the account and leave?"

"Not yet," she said contemplatively."He thinks he's smarter than a cop like Lestrade. He knows you by reputation, but doesn't understand that it's going to take more than planting a corpse in your living room to scare you off."

I watched her wordlessly. It was impossible to tell how much she knew. I didn't want to take for granted that I had in my custody the one person who was capable of bringing down the Syndicate. Not just pieces of it, but the entire network. I had to do whatever I could to make her an ally.

"It was Lex, wasn't it?" she said softly.

I sat bolt upright. "How do you know that?" I demanded.

She smiled a smug self satisfied smile that I violently wanted to tear off her face. "Baby, of course I knew. He wasn't a franchiser; he was one of ours. Even Caleb knew about your little hobby. Of course Geoffrey would choose Lex."

I sat back and contemplated for a moment the gross error I had committed. I was in a deeply compromising position, and she could reveal the fact that I had been purchasing Syndicate cocaine at any time. The notion of strangling her suddenly occurred to me as a viable possibility. I forced myself to relax. If it came back on me, I'd just say that buying was a cover. Or I'd bully Mycroft into smoothing it over.

"Subtle, Irene." I said softly.

"I thought I was tedious." She reached into her overnight bag and pulled out a silver cigarette case. She tapped one out and bent over to light it on a candle.

I stood, stepped over the table and sat down next to her on the sofa. "You're different. I've seen you in court. You're a firebrand. It's your passion. Why waste your time with a business so far beneath you? With lovers so unworthy of you?"

"You're a sweet boy," she purred. "But a lady can't give up all her secrets. You're just going to have to wonder."

I gave her a sideways look. No one had ever called me a "sweet boy". "I'm a lot of things, Irene, but I am not sweet. Brilliant, yes. Sweet, never. Don't insult me."

"I've got no other recourse when the opposition starts flirting with me."

I took the cigarette from her and pulled off it, then flicked it into an empty coffee cup. "I am not flirting. I am protecting my interests. I've been working to unravel the Syndicate for years. You're a means to an end, that's all."

She cocked her head. "You're cute when you're mad."

"Who said I was mad?"

"Maybe you can't get off unless you've got a gun in your hand."

I leaned in. "If I pistol whip you, will you shut up?"

"With this old thing?" She snatched up John's L9A1 from the side table. I arched a brow, and felt a twinge of annoyance that I had been careless enough to leave it there. She slid off the sofa and circled around, the gun leveled at me. To tell the truth, I was a little relieved. She'd been making me uncomfortable, which was no mean feat.

"Not so fun, is it?" she purred, and straddled me, pressing the muzzle under my chin. I smiled and licked my teeth.

"Actually..."

She arched an eyebrow. "Are you just a total masochist?"

"That implies I'm in danger, which I'm not."

"I will shoot you," she warned.

"I know. Get on with it."

She jerked the trigger. It clicked. I smiled.

I swiped the gun out of her hand and tossed it out of reach. She snarled in frustration, but the sound was cut short as I grabbed her around the throat and squeezed, hard. "Cheeky girl. You even got my heart racing a little. Next time, check the chamber."

I released her and she went down on her knees, gasping for breath. "You're deranged," she panted.

"Yes, I know."

"I almost shot you, and you still want to be buddies."

"Even more because you could and would kill me, given the chance. But I also know that John, while he keeps his service weapon loaded, doesn't chamber a round. Unlike me, he doesn't take unnecessary risks."

She put both hands on my knees and pushed herself up to a standing position. "You like me because I'm a threat to you."

I let my head loll back, and looked up at her. "I like you because you're brilliant, maybe as brilliant as I am. Elegant, economic. And yes, because you're dangerous. Beautiful, and dangerous. Dangerous because you're beautiful. And you like me, because I'm the only man who could ever truly appreciate that fact."

She met my eyes, and licked her lips. "I bet you used to get beat on a lot when you were a kid."

Impressed though I was by her intuition, I wasn't fazed. "So were you. And what did you learn, Irene?"

Her expression was hard, mouth set. "You win when you decide to do what the other person won't."

I locked eyes with hers, seeing myself mirrored in their blackness. Impulse seized me. I put my hands on her lower back and jerked her into my lap. Her nails went into my neck. I didn't care if she was fighting me. I slammed her down on the couch and brought my mouth down on hers, rough, merciless.

She shoved me away, chest heaving, her eyes blazing and accusatory. "What the fuck, Sherlock."

I stared blankly at her. "Tell me to stop."

She hesitated. It was all I needed. I slid a hand down between her legs, pressed the heel against her and moved it in slow hard circles. She inhaled sharply. Her body arched involuntarily, her eyes becoming glassy and unfocused. I bent down and kissed her again, softer this time, dipping my tongue into her mouth. She tasted coppery, salty, like meat done bloody rare. She was still for a moment, allowing me quarter, breathing through my mouth. Then her hand slid into my hair, her legs wrapping around me. Her spine went rigid as she came. I could feel the tension releasing, rippling through her. She went limp, gasping in breath through her slack mouth.

I put my hand on her cheek, which was flushed with heat. "Your verdict, counselor?"

She turned her head, and captured my thumb in her mouth, and sucked on it. I shivered.

"You said you had a bed. Sofa's uncomfortable."

"Can you walk?"

She shot me a look. I offered her my hand, and pulled her up. Her knees shook a little, and I lifted her in one arm. She put her arms around my neck, and I carried her up the stairs. At the landing, she slid out of my arms and looked between the two doors. "Which is yours?"

"The left. But John has a double bed. Mine's a single."

"That's not very considerate."

I pushed the door open. "He won't mind. It's not like he's using it."

John's room was neat and warmly decorated. He had a few framed pictures, mostly of his platoon. He had medals, I knew, but he kept them in a drawer. The Ikea desk, dresser and nightstand were simple and unoffensive, and he'd added an antique love seat, over which was draped his tartan bathrobe. His bookshelf was filled with some fiction, a lot of Tom Clancy, some Kurt Vonnegut, and a host of medical journals, editions of Gray's Anatomy, the latest DSM, and a stack of periodicals.

Irene took the initiative to close the blackout curtains, and flipped on the lamp by the bedside table. She went over to the photographs, and looked up at them. "Afghanistan?"

"Yes. Army doctor. Decorated, even."

"I wouldn't expect you to have a roommate, much less a decorated army doctor. What did he do to deserve you?"

I shrugged. "Circumstances aligned, I suppose. Our temperaments compliment each other, despite being at odds much of the time. He is an ordinary person with extraordinary nerve. The kind of man you'd want in a fight."

She scrutinized the photo more closely. "You say he's a decorated war hero. Did he ever tell you why?"

"No."

She turned to me, a ghost of a smile on her face. "Maybe he's a hero for putting up with you." 

"I confess, I don't really understand that word." I watched her for a long moment, envisioning the body underneath her baggy tee-shirt, and making no pretense about it.

She pulled the tee-shirt over her head, and tossed it aside, then stepped out of her sweats. She leaned back against the wall and watched me. She was curved at the edges, with a core of muscle shot through, soft parabolas forming an hourglass. Her skin was an almost iridescent brown.

I perched on the edge of the perfectly made bed and waited for her to come to me. She did, pacing slowly towards me. She took my hands and put them on her velvety soft skin. I moved my hands down her flanks. She'd put a lot of effort into tooling her muscles, which were taut under supple skin.

Her fingers found my shirt buttons. She swiftly undid them, and pulled my shirt off, then splayed her hands on my chest, dark fingers on pallid flesh. They trailed down to my trousers, deftly unsnapping and unzipping.

"My turn," she said in a husky voice. She slid her hands into the sides of my boxer shorts, and in one quick motion, she pulled them and my trousers down around my ankles. I kicked them off, and lifted her into my lap.

She engulfed me. The physical sensation washed over me like a wave of heat, and I shuddered. The gears of my clinical, obsessive, analytical brain came to a grinding halt. It was like a muscle I didn't know was seized had released, and the pain of it was dull and throbbing. It was a relief from relentless pounding thought, a relief that something base and animal could overwhelm the torture of my eternally heightened consciousness.

I pressed my face into her breasts and grasped the ample flesh of her rear, leaning into to her as she rode me with almost mechanical precision, each stroke a deliberate and controlled action. I could feel the muscles of her core flexing, her breath coming hot and fast. I put my mouth on her skin, tasted the salty tang of her flesh.

She seized my hair and tugged my head back, watching me intently, waiting for my surrender. She tightened around me and sucked at my lower lip, then thrust her tongue into my mouth. My body jerked as I came, as if I'd been strafed with bullets. I groaned into her mouth. She swallowed the sound and sat back on my knees, looking satisfied.

I was winded, but managed to stay upright by wrapping my arms around her. I rested my cheek against her skin, and caught my breath. "That was...that...was..."

"Amazing. The word you're looking for."

"I see how you control them," I said against her skin. "One taste and they're enslaved."

"Had enough?" she asked, a coquettish smile all over her face.

I grinned. "I haven't started."

With that, I flipped her on to the bed on to her stomach, and pinned her there with my body. She took a deep gasping breath as I slid into her. She seized the bars of the headboard, holding herself arched and tense. I drove into her, feeling her shoulder blades dig into my chest. My hands ran along her ribs to her breasts, cupping them and squeezing roughly. So soft a body for so sharp a mind. I worked my teeth at the tense muscle where her neck and jaw connected. She groaned softly, thrusting back against me.

It didn't take long to bring her to the edge. She panted, starting to make little whimpering sounds. Not the annoying forced efforts of some one-night-stand slut, but involuntary and all the more delectable for that.

I withdrew and sat back on my haunches. She rolled over and looked at me with a furious glare and a frankly adorable pout. She didn't need to speak for me to know that she was demanding to know why I'd stopped.

"That's for trying to shoot me," I scolded. Her hand came up in a flash, but I'd anticipated it. I caught her by the wrist and bit hard into her flesh. Sharp intake of breath. She quivered under me, and I could tell she had almost come right then.

"Fuck you."

"Mm, exactly." I settled back between her legs, teasing. "I think, deep down, for all your desire to have control, what you really want is to be held down like the first time."

Her eyes widened, and the blood surged to her face. The rage took a moment to register, and then she tried to drive her nails into my face. I took the opportunity to seize her other wrist, and pinned both her hands above her head. Then I pressed back into her, thrusting hard, leaning down to lick up the single tear from the corner of her eye.

Her whole body buckled as she came. She stopped fighting me, and I could feel her tightening inside like a vice. I released her wrists and slid my hand down, not letting up the pressure. She seized, wrapped her arms around me, clinging as the wave hit her again, so intense it must have been almost painful.

The muscles encasing me constricted, and I came hard, the tension vibrating and snapping across my body. I rode it out, pressing my face into her neck, gulping in air like a drowning person breaching the water's surface. We held on to each other for dear life for a moment before going slack. She relaxed, peeled herself away, and fell back into the pillow, saturated with sweat. She stared at me, her eyes half closed, her mouth swollen.

"Why did you say that?" she asked in a low voice.

I pulled away from her and rolled on my back. "When I first found out you were defending the Marcel family, I did extensive research into your background. Very extensive."

"You found out about Sinclair." She said up. " That is fucked up thing to say, Sherlock, even for you."

"Hmmm. You're sixteen. Your step-father abuses you, mommy doesn't believe you, you run away. But it gets better." I grinned at her. Sinclair disappears, and they never find his body."

She stared at me, then looked away. "I don't see your point."

I propped myself on one elbow, put one hand on her cheek, and turned her face towards me. Her expression was as hard as granite. I put my lips to her ear. "Well done."

She held my gaze, measuring me. I beckoned her with one hand. She flowed into my arms, tucking her head under my chin. I stroked my fingers over her shoulder.

"You've been waiting fifteen years to hear that, haven't you?"

She let me hold her for a few minutes, then pulled from away from me, slid off the bed and stood up. "Stay there. I need a cigarette."

Naked, she padded down the stairs. I stretched out, feeling several vertebrae and joints cracking. The cool air felt absolutely delicious on my damp skin. After a moment, Irene returned with the silver case in hand. She pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. "I tried the nicotine gum."

"The gum is worthless." I showed her the patch on my arm. "It helps. Usually takes two or three."

She blew out a cloud of smoke, and looked at me with appraising eyes. "You're not bad with your shirt off, paleface."

"You're very...symmetrical." I sat up against the headboard and considered the lines of her body. "Are you familiar with Da Vinci's Leda and the Swan?"

She took a hard drag on her cigarette. "I hate you."

"I know. Come to bed."

She wedged the fag between her teeth and crawled over towards me. She took a deep pull, and then pressed her lips to mine. I opened my mouth to hers, inhaling the smoke, a spicy custom blend of expensive Cuban tobacco, and flakes of Sativa strain cannabis. I exhaled through my nostrils.

"The pot's a nice touch."

"A girl has to relax somehow." She offered the rest of the cigarette, and I took it, tapping out a bit of ash in John's water glass.

"So what's your damage?" she asked, leaning back on the headboard next to me. "How did little Sherlock Holmes plunge through the ice and turn cold?"

"You have a lovely turn of phrase." I took another hit off the stag, and blew smoke at the ceiling. "Since you ask, it was secondary school. I was thirteen."

She rolled her head to look at me. "One of the teachers?"

I nodded. "Head of our house. I was at boarding school from age five, you should know. That sort of thing happened quite often. Still does."

"You told?"

"Naturally. He was sacked, of course. No one ever believed him when he said I seduced him."

She cocked her head. "You did seduce him, didn't you?"

I looked away, and shrugged. "I told you. I get bored."

"You really are a psychopath."

"I could be your Geoffrey Norton, with the dowdy wife and two little crumbsnatchers kids, so very desperate to be important. Cheating, embezzling, doing anything to feel powerful. I could golf, go to church on Sundays, fill out paperwork all day, dream of a corner office. And inevitably, I could eat my pistol and leave a bloody mess all over wifey's Italian bathroom tile." I yawned. "Is it really better? More restful? I suspect that everybody is as bored as I am, they're just so bound by conventions and good manners that they never admit it."

"If you're such a nihilist, why aren't you a criminal?"

I examined the cherry end of the fag before taking another pull. "I've asked myself that. Murder, theft, none of it appeals to me. Where's the challenge? Even the most heinous, evil act boils down to an elaboration of exaggerated stupidity. Crime for the object of gain is just tawdry. Being the pursuer of crime rather than its agent offers infinitely more scope for my abilities. Crime is common; logic is rare. The forces of good have a much harder time of it because they have to abide by a rule book, and those limitations necessitate true creative thinking. I've elevated it to an art."

"It's the hunt. You get high on it." She was thoughtful. "Left to your own devices, you'd probably evolve into history's most dangerous serial killer."

I chuckled. "That's quite the inference, Madame Prosecutor. You'd like to try the case, would you?"

She smirked. "Any day of the week."

"You should sleep. You have a long day ahead of you."

"I can't. I'm too wired."

"Suit yourself." I handed her back the last of the cigarette.

She smoked it down to the filter, then flicked it away. She blew smoke into my face, making my eyes water, then crawled on top of me. "We still have some time to kill."

"Are you going to try that again?" I said, tilting my head.

She licked her lips. "Maybe."

"I should be keeping watch. I am supposed to be protecting you, after all."

"Do you really think it's going to make any difference?"

I rolled her over and nestled between her thighs. "No. But don't come crying to me if you die."


	11. so much for the afterglow

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes  
April 12

It was a little past six when I was awoken by the sound of rustling fabric. I hadn't even been aware of falling asleep. Irene was pulling on some gray slacks and a white angora turtleneck. Her hair was damp and unbound; she'd had a shower. Cold, as I'd cut power to the water heater. She twisted it up and clipped it, then glanced at me. I sat up, slid out of bed and walked over to her, putting my hands on her shoulder and pressing my lips against the back of her neck. "Care to go another round?"

She pushed me away gently. "I need to go."

I watched her for a beat, then shrugged and went into my room for my bathrobe. I came back, swept John's bedding into my arms and took it downstairs. I flipped on the breaker, and piled it into the washer. Then I made my way to the sitting room, rang for a taxi, and curled into my dent on the sofa.

She came down the stairs, fresh-faced and well rested. I could feel my thoughts start to churn into their familiar cycle. I felt restless, caged. I hoped Lestrade would call soon, preferably with a corpse on hand.

"There's a taxi on the way," I said into the sofa's backrest.

"Are you sulking?" She sounded amazed.

"I'm not sulking." I was sulking.

"Sherlock Holmes, post-coital depression."

"I do not have-" The doorbell cut me off. I stood up and stepped close to her. "Go directly to Scotland Yard."

She grinned. "Do not pass go, do not collect $200."

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. "Never mind."

I caught up her hand as she turned to leave. "You could come back. After the interrogation, I mean."

She laughed gently, then leaned up to kiss my cheek. "You'd get bored anyway, sooner or later."

"You aren't boring."

She put her fingers on my lips. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

She turned her back and walked away. Her footsteps carried down the stairs, and I heard the door slam. I turned back to the room, and suddenly felt paralysed. The distance to the couch seemed to stretch across an impassable void. The ennui settled on me like a lead coat, and even breathing no longer seemed worthwhile.

Then something caught my eye and my heart lifted: my coat thrown over the chair, the contents of my pocket on the carpet. A few coins, a five pound note, and on top of that, the little bag of cocaine. 

John Watson's Blog

April 12th

Got back to the flat around 9am. Sherlock was turned into the sofa and curled up. I couldn't tell if he was awake or not, so I went up to my room to go change into some fresh clothes. I stopped dead when I saw that the bed had been stripped, charged back down the stairs and fairly skidded to a stop in front of my flatmate.

"Sherlock, where are my sheets and comforter?"

He didn't open his eyes, or move. "Washer."

I tried to keep my voice from quivering in anger. "And why are they in the washer."

"Irene Adler. Needed somewhere to sleep. House was shot up, her house. Lestrade released her to my custody."

"And what was wrong with your bed? It's not like you sleep in it."

"Mm," he said and curled into a tighter ball.

I kicked the coffee table aside and went to stand over him. "Sherlock, I don't know what your sodding problem is, but- is that a love bite on your neck?"

"Very possibly," he said, voice muffled by the cushion.

"You...and Irene...in my bed?" I was stunned. Not even so much by the gross violation, but because I could hardly believe that my friend, with his utter disdain for the baser instincts of human nature, would engage in such an act. He never had sex. Ever. Or so I had been led to believe. Clearly, I was mistaken, for not only did he have sex, he had sex in my bed.

He rolled out to look at me. "My bed is a single. Too small. Obviously." He turned back into the couch. "You'd better put your wash in the dryer, or it'll get musty."

I opened and closed my mouth several times, trying to find something to say that would summarize both my anger, and my total bafflement. In a fog of confusion, I went downstairs to move my bedding into the dryer, then wandered back upstairs, still shell-shocked.

"Where's Mrs. Hudson?" I asked, then was suddenly distracted from my query as I noticed a large, reddish-brown stain in the carpet. "What is that?"

Sherlock rolled on his back, and looked up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. There were more purple and yellow suck marks dotting his neck and what I could see of his chest. "It's blood. The Syndicate murdered one of my informants and put his body there. There's cigarette ash in your water glass, because we smoked a fag in your room, and I shagged Irene Adler in your bed. All night. Mrs. Hudson is at her sister's. Any more questions?"

I stood, helplessly trying to think of some kind of reply, when Sherlock's mobile started to to buzz. Quick as a flash, his hand shot out and grabbed it. He checked the number, then answered it. "Lestrade. Yes. On my way."

He threw down the phone and raced up the stairs. After getting dressed at top speed, he came pounding back down, and threw on his coat. He stopped for a half a second to look at me. "Are you coming?"

I stared at him, trying to keep my mouth from dropping open. He picked up my jacket and tossed it to me.

His teeth were grinding as we weaved through morning traffic. His fingers drummed ceaselessly, and I could see a muscle standing out in his jaw. It bothered me. He was agitated, fidgeting, more tense than I'd ever seen him.

"Sherlock, are you on something?"

He looked at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to snap his teeth at me. Then he seemed to relax, if only an inch. "Why would you say that?"

"You're shaking."

He let his head drop back against the headrest, his breathing shallow and erratic. "I haven't slept for a few days."

"You've gone a few days before. This is different. You look manic."

He ignored me. The taxi came to a halt. He shoved some cash into the cabbie's hand, and then got out, taking long strides towards the lab entrance. I was hot on his heels, with half a mind to stop him and somehow force him to let me examine him.

Molly and Lestrade were standing around the head of the table, upon which lay a putrefied corpse. That it was male, black, and dressed in what must have been a very fine suit were really the only things evident to me. The scent of decay was overwhelming, and I covered my face with arm, trying not to retch. Molly handed me a jar of wintergreen gel.

"Put some under your nose. It helps a bit."

Lestrade was holding a handkerchief to his face, but he lowered it to address Sherlock. "The driver. Some river boat tourists found him in the Themes, caught on a dock piling. He was shot through the chest, but there was something else. Molly found it."

Sherlock turned his too-bright, glittering eyes to Molly. "Show me."

Molly used a pair of forceps to pull back the collar. Sherlock bent down, seemingly immune to the stench of rotting flesh. She pointed to a tiny puncture. "There."

I recognized it immediately. "It's a needle mark. He took a jab to the neck."

She nodded. "Sodium thiopental."

"Sodium thiopental," Sherlock repeated. "Used for executions. It causes unconsciousness in thirty seconds or less. Driver takes a stab to the neck, Caleb a shot to the head. The killer could have shot the driver from behind, but that would give away the fact that it was an execution conducted from the inside of the car, not a rival hit from outside. So, instead, the needle."

"That's admissible," said Lestrade, satisfied.

Sherlock looked at him. "A criminal lawyer would have studied capital punishment. You have all the evidence you need to convict Norton. Did you arrest him?"

"An hour ago. But I still need Irene Adler. Where is she?"

Sherlock's expression went blank. "She's not at the Yard?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No. I thought you were bringing her."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, took an aggressive step towards him. "Ring them. Find out if she's there. Now." 

"I did." Lestrade automatically stepped back. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sherlock suddenly grasped the edge of the autopsy table, his knees buckling under him. I caught him under the arms as he went down. He had lost consciousness, but his body was twitching. I laid him on the floor and felt for a pulse. It was beating fast. Too fast. I pulled open one of his eyelids, but no response; his pupils were pinpointed. I looked at Molly. She didn't hesitate, but ran to the office to call for the paramedics.

In the ambulance, I tried to make a diagnosis. He had symptoms of an overdose, and at first his pulse was racing irregularly. But now he had drifted into a comatose state, and his heart rate had plummeted to dangerously sluggish. I considered his pale face, the sweat standing out on his forehead, and took his pulse again.

"What did he take?" asked the EMT sitting on the other side of the gurney. "Some type of narcotic?"

"Cocaine," I said without hesitation. "Something else, I'm not sure what. But if he took a narcotic, it would be cocaine."

I knew it to be true. I'd known it the moment we'd stepped out the door. I should have known it the moment I got home that morning. Or the last time I found him pacing ceaselessly at four in the morning, his hands black with newsprint from the floor-to-ceiling collage he'd created on our wall. Or the time I found him with my service pistol, shooting holes in that same wall. I should have known.

When we got to the hospital, they only let me in as far as the emergency ward waiting room. I desperately wished I could have donned scrubs and done something besides sit on my arse waiting for news. The frustration of being benched like this was deeply bitter. For all my training and expertise, I was useless. I couldn't help. It felt like a knife to the gut.

I was sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, dry-washing my hands when shadow fell over me, and I looked up to see the towering form of Mycroft Holmes. He was accompanied by a set of black-clad men, both of whom were wearing wired headsets. I stood up immediately, and offered my hand. Mycroft shook it, but his face was expressionless.

"Were you aware," he said in a monotone. "Of my brother's little problem?"

I looked at him intently. "No. Not until today."

He nodded. "I believe you. He is extraordinarily clever at hiding it, but I am always informed when he lapses."

"How is he?"

"They've stabilized him. He's still unconscious."

"He was showing symptoms of an overdose at first, but then his heart rate started to drop. What else did he take?"

Mycroft examined his fingernails. "He was poisoned, in so many words."

I ran a hand through my hair. "Can I see him?"

He sighed heavily. "I'm afraid that's not going to be possible."

"Why not?" I demanded. "What's going to happen to him?"

"Nothing you need concern yourself with," he said firmly. "The situation is under control now, but Sherlock's precipitous action has necessitated certain steps be taken."

I felt a sinking sensation. "What do you mean, certain steps? What's going to happen to him?"

He looked at me with a grave expression. "John, these gentlemen work for the government, and they'll be escorting you home. The game has changed, and you aren't safe on your own."

I looked at the solemn-faced men, then back to Mycroft. "What in God's name is going on here?"

"I will be in touch. Take care, John."

He turned away. The men flanked me, and I could see by their expressions, or lack thereof, that they were prepared to remove me against my will if necessary. I was forced to allow them to escort me out of the hospital. I had every intention of finding my way back. There was no doubt in my mind that whatever happened, Sherlock would need my help.


	12. summary judgement

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 12th (continued)

I disavow that insufferable, arrogant meddler, that bastard son of a bitch who calls himself my brother.

I awoke in a hospital bed, groggy and disorientated. My body felt as though it had been weighted down, and there was a nasogastric tube in my nose. I moved to dislodge it, but my wrists had been fastened down to the bed frame with heavy-duty nylon restraints. My ankles were likewise bound. I tested my bonds, but I was heavily sedated, in no condition to attempt any kind of struggle, but I knew instinctively who was responsible for this turn of affairs.

Mycroft stood at the foot of my bed, watching me with the mixture of pity and disdain that he reserved especially for me. It was an expression he had perfected shortly after I learned to talk and had applied liberally since, but never more than now.

"Sherlock," he said with carefully affected concern. "How are you feeling?"

The tube rubbed uncomfortably against the back of my throat, and it was difficult to speak. "Like someone pumped me full of drugs, shoved plastic up my nose and strapped me down. Get them to take the tube out."

"I can't do that," Mycroft said, his lip twitching. "You have to admit, you knew this was coming. I warned you this would happen if you didn't clean up."

I tried to focus on him, but my vision was blurred. "It was one slip, Mycroft."

"It was two. Alexander Cavuto was kind enough to inform me that your purchase from him was a relatively small amount, so I decided to let it slide. But the cocaine you so idiotically absconded from his corpse was cut with Nitrazepam, and other substances, which has necessitated long term intensive treatment." He sneered. "That was stupid beyond the pale, even for you."

I didn't for a moment imagine he might have any sympathy for my moment of desperate emptiness. He wasn't possessed of that kind of nuance. There was no need to let him know what had passed between Irene and myself, but I wanted information. I would have to risk it.

"Irene Adler?"

Mycroft's eyebrows rose, and he braced his hands against the foot board. He leaned in, remarkably spider-like for someone so soft and flabby. "I was surprised at you, Sherlock. I accepted long ago that you would eventually end up in this position, but I would never have dreamed that the catalyst would take the form of a woman."

He was almost gloating, taking no care to conceal it. He had been waiting for the opportunity to do this for years. I wanted to hit him, to kick him in the face and shatter his nose. Unfortunately, he was possessed of the missing pieces and as much as I hated him, I needed his insight. There would be time later for personal vengeance.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice slightly choked from trying to speak with the tube in place.

"Grand Cayman. She would have landed about an hour ago."

It took me a moment to make a mental calculation. I'd been unconscious for some seven hours. Being strapped down wasn't helping matters, and the drugs in my system were making constructive thought difficult. Helpless anger was coursing through me as I struggled to comprehend the meaning of Irene's flight. The rising sense of betrayal was not familiar to me, and I was awash in uncertainty.

Mycroft cocked his head. "Poor smitten fool, you are in a fog, aren't you."

"Go to hell," I rasped.

"You should also know that Geoffry Norton was recently discovered in his holding cell sporting a bullet hole in his forehead, his brains splattered all over the wall." He moved closer to me, dragging a chair to my bedside. "Does that sound familiar, Sherlock?"

"The Syndicate caught up to him for killing Caleb Marcel. Bound to happen. Your point?"

"He was shot with a .50 Action Express round, compliments of a Desert Eagle semi-automatic handgun."

I felt a dropping sensation in the region of my stomach, as though I had stepped into a falling elevator. The truth, the obvious truth that I had so clearly overlooked, was starting to surface in my mind. How could I have been so extraordinarily stupid? So utterly blind? I'd never own to it in his presence, but for once, Mycroft had been right. I was a fool.

Mycroft had clearly sensed my revelation. "While you were dashing about looking for a murderer, my department was monitoring the Preston Fund. We were quite aware of the illegal use it was being put to, but we had to wait for the right transaction before we could act. Geoffry Norton made that transaction, moving the funds into a Cayman Island bank account. He too had flight reservations to Grand Cayman, but was arrested before he could make his plane."

"You're inferring that he was shot by Irene Adler, when she was already in the air."

"I can see why you'd think that, but no. I'm not inferring that she shot Norton. The lands and grooves on the bullet were different from the one that was just recovered from the scene of the Marcel murder. The Desert Eagle was used, because those who engineered the assassination wanted you to make the connection."

I knew it to be true. There was no need to delve for an explanation, when it had been glaring in my face from the beginning. Irene had killed the driver, driving a needle into his neck. Irene had shot Caleb Marcel in the head, and had used her considerable experience and know-how to manufacture evidence full of misdirection and contradictions. She had all but told me she was responsible for Marcel's death, that she hated him, and knew I would overlook the obvious. She had manipulated Norton, and when she had no more use for him, she had ordered him executed before he could testify against her.

She had anticipated me. She had offered me hemlock and I had eaten it from her palm. I lay my head back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling, grinding my teeth. How could I have miscalculated so badly? Had I actively chosen to underestimate her? To overlook her position in the rogues' gallery?

More than that. I, the least prurient of men, had sought for three years a confrontation with her, knowing how it would end. I had wanted the woman from the moment I had first spoken to her, from the moment she had turned her predatory smile on me as I had sat in the witness box, grinning back at her. Had I entertained an idea of peeling her exquisitely tailored black Givenchy suit from her graceful limbs? Subconsciously, perhaps, but that didn't scratch the surface. Irene Adler was more dangerous to me than cocaine, infinitely more addictive, and I'd known it.

Mycroft was silent for a moment, and I sensed him debating whether or not to reprimand me. When he spoke, the disappointment in his voice was palpable. "I hope, Sherlock, the irony of this doesn't escape you. I am aware that there has only ever been one woman to you, and that Irene Adler embodies something unique and remarkable. But if she had been an agent for good, you would have taken no notice of her. The criminal, the deviant, the bizarre, that's what attracts you, to your detriment, and the detriment of those around you. I have told you before, this fascination will destroy you."

"It's not too late," I said, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. "I can find Irene's assassin, track down her other confederates."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Her confederates, or I should say her confederate, has already proven himself to be quite beyond your reach."

"What do you mean, has already proven himself?"

Mycroft picked up the hospital bed remote and raised the bed, putting me into a sitting position. He drew out of his pocket a black and white photograph, and placed it on my lap so I could see it clearly. The date stamp was two days ago. It was a security camera still-capture.

All of this was incidental. The subjects of the photograph had arrested my full attention. It was as though there were nothing in the room, nothing in the world, except for that image.

The camera had caught Irene Adler mid-laugh. There were lines of mirth on her face, her eyes twinkled. I had never before seen her laugh in such a way, and it disturbed me. This, perhaps, had something to do with the identity of her companion, with whom she appeared to be totally at ease. James Moriarty had a possessive hand on her shoulder, showing his teeth in a grin as he whispered in her ear. Most unsettling were his eyes. Completely divorced from the smile on his face, they were turned into the security camera, watching with an insolent lack of concern.

I immediately knew that Moriarty had intended for me to see the image, had carefully orchestrated its content to achieve maximum effect. It had worked. I was stunned. At a loss for words, I looked at Mycroft for an explanation.

"I don't know when they made contact," he said airily. "It's possible the conspiracy goes back years, or maybe she only recently enlisted Moriarty's help. I have no doubt that she might have accomplished the murders and absconded with the £20,000,000 on her own."

"No," I said, trying not to choke on the tube as my throat constricted. "She wouldn't kill for money. It's beneath her. It lacks ambition."

Mycroft fixed me with a critical eye. "You would know about that, would you? I don't think having yourself been "beneath" Irene Adler qualifies you to make declarations about her motives."

"Stop prevaricating, Mycroft. Give me the facts."

He arched a brow. "Our intelligence suggests she and her compatriot are making a bid to gain control of the Syndicate. She is presently out of reach, but Interpol has been alerted. We are bound by conventional law, that is to say, our jurisdiction is limited to Britain and our ability to prosecute depends on more than circumstantial evidence. Your indiscretions certainly don't help matters."

"If I find empirical evidence, it won't matter. I'm not the police. I'm not restricted by their petty ethics, their stupid rules. My jurisdiction has no limits. Give me time, Mycroft."

He slowly shook his head. "You've done enough damage and put enough people in harm's way, including your friends. Detective Inspector Lestrade may on occasion exploit the fact that you can cross lines than he can't, but you've crossed one too many with me. You forced me into this position. There's no other alternative."

He was serious. He was going to go through with it. My certainty was compounded when he pressed the button to call the nurse, who promptly came through the curtains with a syringe in hand. He looked to my brother. "They're ready for him, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft stood, and put a hand on my shoulder. "It's time."

"No." I tried to raise myself, tried to fight the overwhelming fatigue, with no success.

Gently, he pushed me back. "I'm sending you somewhere safe."

"You're putting me away. Out of the way."

"In this case, it is the same thing," he acknowledged, then nodded to the nurse, who turned and emptied the syringe into the IV hub. "At the moment, you're beyond my help. It's only temporary; I'll recall you when the time is right."

"Mycroft. Don't."

He squeezed my shoulder. "Get well, Sherlock."

I tried to open my mouth, to call out, to scream my rage, but it was as though I was sinking down into deep water. With one last sanctimonious look, he turned and walked away. I watched his retreating back until my vision went liquid and dark, and I was plunged into drug-induced oblivion.

To be continued. 


End file.
